The Master Chronicles Book 1
by EDZEL2
Summary: A multi- part continuation of The Master's story after events on board the Valiant. "If there's one thing you can't do...it's kill yourself.' The Master has a plan to cheat death, of course he does. But this time, things don't go according to plan...
1. Chapter 1

'You mean you're just gonna..._keep_ me?' The Master's tone is one of disgust and disbelief.

The Doctor stares at him and sees yet another message in the other Time Lord's body language _He's afraid..._

'Hmm. If that's what I have to do.' He turns to Jack, whose expression also speaks volumes. 'It's time to change. Maybe I've been wandering for too long. Now I'll have someone to care for.' He turns back to the Master – and the sound of a gunshot rings out, impossibly loud. There's a split second when no one moves, everyone trying to work out what this means.

The Doctor sees the Master's eyes widen in shock as the air leaves his lungs with a grunt of surprise and he doubles over – then his face is twisting in pain and he's staggering backwards and the Doctor is frozen in shock. Then finally he's moving, but not fast enough, not fast enough... dimly he hears Jack's voice.

'Put it down.' _Lucy_.

And then the Master is in his arms and he's lowering him gently to the floor, supporting him, holding him as the other Time Lord shudders and swallows, his body tensing in pain as the bullet tears through his internal organs, ripping and shredding as it goes.

'There you go. I've got you. I've got you.'

The Doctor glances down – blood is spreading too fast, too bright, the Masters' life blood- his precious Gallifreyan blood- soaking through the white shirt and running down, pooling on the polished floor. The Doctor can smell it, sharp and sweet and redolent of home. He gulps.

The Master shudders again – his face is white and pinched with pain. He tries to speak and the Doctor wants to tell him to save his strength, concentrate... but he can't speak past the constriction in his throat. The Master's eyes are wide with shock – he's unprepared.

'Always the women.' The Master writhes, sweat on his face as his body goes into shock.

Finally the Doctor finds his voice. 'I didn't see her.' _Guns, damn guns - why didn't I see her?_

The Master smiles, a crooked smile. 'Dying in your arms... Happy now?'

_What's he talking about?_ 'You're not dying, don't be stupid. It's only a bullet. Just regenerate.'

'No.' He shudders again.

The Doctor doesn't understand. 'One little bullet. Come on.'

The Master's face twists. 'I guess you don't know me so well. I refuse.'

The Doctor's blood runs cold. He can't do this! Why would he do this? He feels the Master's hearts falter, feels one stop. He's running out of time!

'Regenerate. Just regenerate. Please! Please! Just regenerate! Come on!' _I should stand back, if he -_

'And spend the rest of my life... imprisoned with _you_?' The Master is trembling now, his body shutting down, starved of lifeblood. He blinks, his gaze turning inwards, dismissing the Doctor.

_He's serious...! You can't do this! I won't be alone again, I can't be alone... Not now...!_

'You've got to. Come on. It can't end like this. You and me, all the things we've done... Axons. Remember the Axons? And the Daleks? We're the only two left, there's no one else. _Regenerate_!' He shakes him, as if that will make a difference. It's too late, now. It's always been too late, really. He can feel the tears running down his face. The life he'd save above all others, the one life he thought he'd already lost... and he can't. He feels the Master shiver in his arms, then his muscles start to go slack... his eyes search out the Doctor's, confusion and fear and longing fighting for supremacy as he focuses on the Doctor's face. His mouth works as he clings onto life but its fading, the light in his eyes growing dimmer. The Doctor chokes back a sob as the Master finds his voice.

'How about that? I win.' He gasps. 'Will it stop, Doctor? The drumming... will it stop?' And he's gone, eyelids closing over the tortured mind, lashes brushing pale cheeks as his features soften into the endless sleep that is death.

'No... NO...!' Pain and loss burst out of him in a tortured howl, but the Doctor doesn't hear it, doesn't see his friends exchange worried glances as he clutches the Master's lifeless body, rocking backwards and forwards as he buries his face in the Master's hair, inhaling his scent as if to preserve the memory before it's gone forever.

_/Koschei...I should have used your name, would you have stayed then..? The Academy, Kos, remember the Academy? I'm sorry I told them we were just friends... we were so much more than that and I was wrong to deny it, then and now. It's all my fault; all of it and I'm so, so sorry... please... don't leave me.../_

He knows that what happened on the Valiant during that year was a twisted thing, corrupted by the Master's insanity. At times the Master had barely seemed aware of what he was doing; he'd been driven by 'the drums'. The Doctor hadn't been able to stop him because... no, that's a lie. He _could_ have stopped it, could have fought him off, but he'd hoped he might be able to get the Master to open up so that he could help him, find out what the drums were doing to his mind, maybe even get rid of them. And by the time he realised it was never going to happen, he was too weak. The other Time Lord had been like a thing possessed and all he'd been able to do was suffer through the de-aging process - usually carried out in the Master's suite out of the way of prying eyes - and what followed, before being aged again and returned to his quarters on the flight deck; the tent, to begin with. Once he'd been caged, though, it had all stopped. The Master had grown tired of him, had resumed his attentions to the increasingly bewildered Lucy and whichever pretty girl he'd had brought on board for the purpose. The Doctor had despaired of ever getting past the Master, to his former self; to Koschei. And now of course it's all too late, much too late...

The Doctor doesn't notice when, an endless time later, Jack gently prises his fingers lose and lowers the Master's body gently to the floor. He doesn't feel Martha holding one arm, Jack the other, as they ease him to his feet, his muscles stiff from holding the same position for what must have been nigh on an hour, his trainers slipping in the congealed blood. He hadn't noticed as the UNIT soldiers led Lucy Saxon away, her face vacant as what's left of her mind flees to a kinder place. He didn't see Martha's family, wanting only to escape this hellish place, wanting only to take Martha with them back to some semblance of normality, to try to forget the horror of the past year, didn't see their pain and confusion as Martha shook her head; she can't come now, she's needed here, but she'll be with them soon. He doesn't know that he's still weeping; doesn't see the sudden understanding in Martha's eyes as she realises why she's waited in vain for a response that would never come, as she thinks she's worked it out; doesn't see Jack reach a similar conclusion. He doesn't feel anything as he's drawn into Jacks' arms as he tries to comfort where no comfort can be had. He doesn't hear Martha and Jack's quiet conversation as they worry about what to do for him, what to do with the Master's body.

'What do we do, Jack?'

'Well, we can't leave them here... UNIT want to reclaim the Valiant and they'll want to take the place apart, in case he's left any little surprises for us.'

'You think he might've done that?'

'Wouldn't put it past him, Martha.'

'And what do we do with him?' Martha indicates the Master's body. Someone should cover him, clean him up, prepare him for whatever ceremony is appropriate, she supposes.

'Will the Doctor want to deal with the funeral?'

'I don't know, Martha. I mean, it's not as if he can go home for burial, is it...?' Jack has no idea of the rituals of Gallifreyan burial, or if being a Time Lord means anything different. The Doctor is the only one here who can know that, and he's in no fit state to deal with anything at the moment.

'Should I sedate him, Jack? If he were human...' Martha steps closer and sadly strokes the Doctor's hair. He's oblivious to it all, enfolded in Jack's arms like a child, his sobs wrenching at her heart. She'd had no idea, no idea at all, that the two Time Lords had been so close; the Doctor had been typically close-mouthed about their precise relationship, hadn't he? She recalls his horrified reaction back on Malcassario when she'd finally managed to get his attention to tell him about the Professor's watch; 'That's a good thing, isn't it?' 'It depends which one...' and his 'that's all you need to know' response to her questions about why he was called 'the Master'... and his guarded response to her joke about their being secret brothers... it would seem that they were far more than that, wouldn't it? Why did the Doctor want only to forgive the Master for what would be considered unforgivable in most societies? She didn't get it then, but now she does.

'Well, if you do that, who's gonna pilot the TARDIS out of here? Call me suspicious, but if UNIT get their hands on it...' Jack is mistrustful of UNIT. He knows that they and the Doctor go way back, and that Torchwood and UNIT were historically at loggerheads for much of their history. Now that Jack's Torchwood is technically going against its original charter, there's an uneasy admission that the two organisations perhaps ought to work together more often. Jack isn't sure what he thinks about that, but he does know the idea makes him nervous.

'We need to snap him out of it, then. Because if UNIT take the TARDIS, and ... oh my God, the Americans... the President... they won't just sit back, Jack. They'll want heads to roll... and since Saxon...' Her hand moves to the Doctor's arm.

'Guilt by association, huh?' Jack sees what Martha is getting at. 'Yeah, I can see that happening. We gotta get him – them – out of here.'

As if on cue, the comms unit on the Valiant Bridge whistles urgently.

'UNIT Central to the Valiant – are we clear now, Captain? You've had long enough.'

'Valiant to UNIT Central – a few more moments, Captain. We're almost done.'

'You have ten minutes, Captain, then we're boarding.'

'Shit. Okay Martha, here's what we do. You take the Doctorto the TARDIS...' he releases the Doctor and steers him gently towards Martha, who takes the Doctor's arms and gives him a little shake. 'I'll bring him...' and he kneels by the Master's body, gently scoops him up into his arms, heedless of the blood now soaking his own clothes.

'Doctor... you have to come with me.' Martha speaks carefully; a hand cupping the Doctor's flushed cheek as she tries to draw him away from his anguish. He lifts his head as if the weight of the universe is on his shoulders –as perhaps it is- and looks at her in confusion. Martha manages to suppress a gasp of shock as his eyes find hers; he looks lost, desolate beyond belief.

'What...?' He sniffs and blinks, lifting a hand to wipe his eyes. Blood smears his face and as he lowers his hand, he catches sight of his own bloody fingers. Martha tenses, but he simply stares at them silently for a moment before sniffing again, and drawing himself up. 'Right.' He looks around him, sees Jack disappearing through the door, the Master's body limp in his grasp.

'Jack's taking him to the TARDIS. We thought you... we don't know what ceremonies...'

'Yes. Right... I'll... take care of him now.' He pulls out of Martha's grip, staggering slightly as he moves away, following Jack.

'Steady...' Martha hurries to his side and takes his arm.

The Doctor stops, turns to look at her.

'Lucy...?' Something crosses his face as he speaks, but it's long gone before Martha can understand it.

'She's being taken care of, Doctor.' Poor Lucy... Martha had been as shocked as any of them to see the battered woman chanting for the Doctor. But she supposes she shouldn't have been – Lucy is as much a victim as the rest of humanity, she realises, no matter how the relationship had started out. By the end she'd been just another plaything, someone else for the Master to torture and abuse. And in the end she'd simply snapped.

'Oh. Good. Good.' He resumes his stumbling way to the door, and Martha follows by his side, silent as they proceed down the now silent corridors to the lower decks where the TARDIS awaits.

To Martha's surprise, when she follows the Doctor through the doors, the red glow of the Paradox Machine has been replaced by an inky darkness. In the light from the open door she can see that the steel cage around the central column is still in place but the tolling of the cloister bell is muted now. Is the TARDIS dying?

'Doctor...'

'I see it, Martha. First things first – where is ... he?'

'Here, Doctor.' Jack's voice comes out of the darkness. 'I didn't know where else...'

The Doctor moves swiftly to the console and stabs a few controls and suddenly the room is flooded with light. Jack has placed the Master on the rickety pilot seat – the Time Lord's hands hang down on either side, his legs awkwardly hanging from the end. It's an incongruous sight and Martha feels an inexplicable sadness.

'That's okay, Jack. Thank you. If you'll excuse me for a moment...' he gathers the Master into his arms, struggling a little. Although the Master is not as tall as the Doctor, he's probably a similar weight and the Doctor's lanky height seems frail in comparison to the Master's compact frame.

Jack steps forward to offer help, but the Doctor stops him with a look.

'No, Jack. I can manage. Thanks. I just need to put him...' he tails off as he shifts the Master's deadweight in his arms, and staggers slightly as he climbs the metal stairs.

Jack and Martha watch wordlessly as the Doctor's heavy footsteps move slowly up the staircase, until he's out of sight.

'It's like he's punishing himself...' Martha whispers, her voice choked with tears as she turns to Jack. 'Oh Jack... I had no idea...'

'Me neither.' Jack takes Martha into his arms and hugs her tightly to him as she cries quietly, not wanting to disturb the unhappy silence of the ailing TARDIS. '...Explains quite a lot, though.'

'Yeah...' Martha can think of nothing more to say; she doesn't want to talk about this now, with the Doctor possibly within earshot. She feels stupid and blind and angry... all he had to do was say... but it's never that simple, is it? Maybe he thought she'd leave ... he's so very lonely, she sees that now. And all his talk that says nothing, really, not since that day on New, New Earth when she'd refused to move until he started being honest with her. And she'd been so sad for him, hadn't she, but reassured that he'd opened up to her... except there'd been so much that he hadn't said, either... and okay, maybe its private but ... And she stops. It makes no difference, really, does it, because she's already made her decision; she'd made it when she saw her parents being thrown into police vans, really... but it had taken her until their reunion on the Valiant to see it.

'Are you okay, Martha?' Jack holds her at arm's length, his thumb wiping away a tear.

'Yeah. Yeah, I am, Jack. You?' She steps back, wrinkling her nose a little, suddenly embarrassed for him. 'Ew.'

Jack smiles and shrugs. 'A little high – and I don't mean that in a good way, obviously! – But otherwise... yeah, I'll live... Of course.' And he chuckles ruefully. 'Can't do much else.'

'You could always shower... there's a bathroom up there...I'm sure he won't mind...'

Jack nods. 'I might just do that, depends on how long we're gonna be here. UNIT will be here soon. We really ought to go...' He glances up at the darkened stairway.

'I'll get you both home, Jack... almost before you left, if you want.' The Doctor strides down the stairs. He's exchanged the blood-stained suit for another in the same colour and style. Neither Jack nor Martha feels like commenting on it, simply exchanging a glance of relief.

'It'll take me a while to fix this – shower room is first on the left, Jack. Chuck your clothes in the unit by the door; they'll be ready by the time you're done.' Not looking at them, the Doctor removes his jacket, draping it over the railing, and rolls up his shirtsleeves before going to the console, where he opens a draw and removes a sonic screwdriver. Flipping it in the air, he approaches the wire cage as Jack climbs the stairs.

'Right then old girl, let's get you out of this...' and he aims the sonic at one section then another. The sections fall away as whatever was holding them in place disintegrates under the sonic squeal, and the Doctor flings the pieces of metal to one side in an ever-growing heap as he works his way around the console.

Martha watches, fascinated, as the skeleton of the Paradox Machine disappears, slowly revealing the Time Rotor arrangement she knows.

'Anything I can do to help?'

The Doctor looks up, startled, as if he's forgotten she's there, and Martha feels a pang of what... regret? She smiles, suddenly feeling awkward. 'Not that I'd have a clue, of course, but you know... I could, I dunno, hold the toolbox or something...?'

The Doctor stares at her for what seems a long moment that is probably only a second or two, and eventually he smiles; a quiet, sad smile, as if he knows what she's thinking.

'You know what I'd really like, Martha Jones?' And he grins. Not the 100-watt grin she's used to seeing, but maybe a 40-watt effort. But what the heck, it's a grin, nonetheless. She smiles back.

'Let me guess...'

'A cup of tea...white, three sugars!' they speak simultaneously and then stop before bursting into laughter. Slightly hysterical laughter, it's true, but they embrace in a hug of relief and regret and just glad-to-be-aliveness.

'Oh, I've missed you, Mister!' Martha finds herself saying, not caring anymore how it's interpreted, because it's true. She hasn't seen him like this for a year and even if the clock says only a day or two has passed, her mind knows the truth.

'I've missed me, too...' the Doctor says, before his grin fades and he takes Martha's hands in his own, and stares at her, as if he can't quite believe she's still here. 'Thank you.' He says.


	2. Chapter 2

**'The Master Chronicles - Book One.  
>Chapter One - Betrayal'<strong>

**Private Apartments, 10 Downing Street, London.**

Lucy wakes with a start, heart pounding and skin slick with the sweat of fear. She's not sure at first what awoke her or even if perhaps she's still dreaming. The room is in complete darkness but she can feel the presence of someone else nearby and fear twists her stomach. She closes her eyes, willing her breathing back to a more sleep-like rhythm and moving restlessly, murmuring as if still in the grip of her dream. Then she forces her muscles to relax, to appear as if she is still sleeping; but even as she does this, she knows that it will probably make little difference – asleep or awake, he will get what he wants from her. She's learned that resistance is pointless; even to acquiesce can sometimes be dangerous, depending on his mood; and either response will lead to taunts and beatings designed to provoke the reaction he desires at that particular moment. He's impossible to predict and she has long since stopped trying. _Please, let this be a dream, don't let him be here..._

As the silence deepens, Lucy fights against the overwhelming urge to open her eyes, to run, to hide... even though she knows that there's nowhere she can possibly go to escape him. Her skin prickles with the knowledge that his eyes are surely on her, watching her breathing and waiting, just waiting... Then she feels it, the merest whisper of breath across her skin, the sensation of someone standing close, so close, near enough to touch...

'No!' even as she draws breath, gasping out the word, strong hands grip her wrists and hold her down. Her eyes, against her will, fly open - in the dark she can't see him but his breath is on her face; he's panting now, the laughter silent but deafening in her mind as she feels his eyes bore into hers.

'Lucy, my love...' his voice betrays the grin that she knows will be ear-to-ear across his boyish features; the face that once made her heart beat faster in quite a different way, completely unlike the terror fuelling her galloping pulse now.

'Harry, no, please, I' – the slap stings her cheek and her head snaps back against the pillow, eyes smarting. Her vision swims and for a moment nausea overwhelms her so that she gulps loudly.

'Call me _Master_!' he hisses, his body pressing against hers, his mouth covering hers until she thinks she must suffocate. She bucks beneath him, frantically trying to throw him off, feeling his arousal against her thigh. _Please... I need air..._ her vision blurs and her ears begin to ring. _Please, don't let it end like this..._

Lucy Cole is totally unprepared for her first meeting with the Minister for Defence, Harold Saxon. Oh, she has researched him, certainly; she knows the public face of the man striding across the lobby to meet her, his hand outstretched and with what she would call the 'politician's smile' on his face; the insincere 'I really don't have time for this but I suppose I've no choice' kind of smile that Ministers employ so often.

What she has _not_been prepared for is the sudden tension she feels as his eyes look her up and down in a considering way, almost as if he's trying to decide whether she merits attention. Initial indignation at his manner is suddenly replaced by an overwhelming and inexplicable fear and for a moment Lucy feels as if the air has been sucked from her lungs. She gasps wordlessly before managing to recover her composure and takes a deep breath. In those few moments as he gives her his full and absolute attention, Lucy has the feeling that Harold Saxon is an extremely dangerous man and that the most sensible thing she could do would be to turn and run as far away from him as possible. But before she can turn thought into action he's standing right in front of her, regarding her with eyes the colour of warm whisky and the fear dissipates as quickly as it came. Somehow she finds her voice.

'I'm Lucy Cole, Mr Saxon, Turner and Broughton Publishing.' _Get a grip, Lucy Cole! _The hand that grips hers and shakes it firmly is warm and dry – thank God, not a wet, limp handshake – and as those eyes continue to probe hers Lucy feels a wave of something very like lust explode within her. She gulps again as heat flushes her body; it must surely be written all over her face.

'Oh, I know who _you_ are, Lucy – may I call you Lucy? Please, call me Harry. I'm _delighted_to meet you. Come this way...' and placing his hand on the small of her back, Harry Saxon steers her into his office. The door shuts behind her with a luxurious clunk, and for Lucy Cole nothing is ever the same again.

She comes to, head ringing and gasping for air, and fumbles for the light. Relief that she seems to be alone again turns to horror as she realises her mistake – he's lying beside her, propped up on one elbow, consternation creasing his brow.

'Har – Master, what...' his hand shoots out, gripping her jaw and forcing her chin up.

'I thought I told you not to do that.' The tone is calm, reasonable even, but the glitter in his eyes gives the lie.

'What? I don't know -' she manages before his grip tightens and speech becomes impossible.

'To absent yourself...without my permission.' His face is against hers, skin to skin. She can't focus and screws her eyes tightly shut.

_Oh God, no... _Self-preservation kicks in.'I'm s-sorry, M-Master!' She forces a smile, reaching up and tentatively stroking his hair, just the way he likes it. _ Come on Lucy, you can do this. You have to. _'It won't happen again, I promise.'

His eyes search hers, looking for the truth behind her words. 'I hope not. Otherwise...' His grip tightens around her jaw and she gasps. 'Well, I can arrange alternative entertainment, if it will make it easier for you?'

Her stomach churns. Is there no end to it?

'Master, you know that won't be necessary...' so saying, she runs her hand through his hair and, willing the smile of the seductress to her facial muscles, she traces a hand down his face, around his mouth – so charming one moment, so cruel the next - and down his throat.

_No! Don't think it! He'll know! _The sudden urge to grip that throat with both hands and squeeze as hard as she can is replaced a split second later with the knowledge that she's not strong enough to carry it out.

She fumbles with his tie, releasing it awkwardly and undoes the buttons on his shirt one by one, trying to still the trembling of her fingers whilst keeping eye contact all the while. Her face aches with the effort of maintaining the smile but she daren't falter. She presses the flat of her hand against his chest, feeling the two hearts quicken as she strokes downwards toward his belly. Those hypnotic eyes are boring into her mind; suddenly and shockingly she's wet with desire and moans despite herself. With a grunt, he's on top of her, his arousal hard between her legs and his mouth on hers, until she cries out with the joy and the terror of it.

In the beginning it had been so different. Lucy had never quite worked out where her first reaction had come from; or, if she was honest with herself, the second. Both were entirely unexpected and as he'd ushered her into his office her head had been spinning with confusion. During that first meeting to discuss the writing and marketing of his autobiography, they had talked of many things besides the work he wanted her to do. Exactly _what _they'd discussed Lucy could not afterwards have said; but she remembers that when she'd left the meeting an hour later, she'd felt as if she'd been in an all-day meeting rather than the hour her watch told her had actually passed; drained but strangely sated, and with the feeling that she had known Harry Saxon all her life. After that, she seemed to spend more time in his office than her own. He appeared to relish her company and she began to look forward to seeing him.

Lucy remembers one particular evening - they had been working late, putting finishing touches to the final chapter. Harry Saxon worked impossible hours, and seemingly without being asked to his staff did the same. Although everyone else seemed to flag as the hours wore on and the office slowly emptied, Saxon seemed to have limitless energy...

_His stamina is incredible... _Lucy thinks, stifling a yawn and longing for her bed.

'Yes, it is, isn't it...allow me to demonstrate?' Harry's voice whispers in her ear. She yelps with surprise and leaps from the chair in consternation.

'What?'

Harry chuckles; it's a low throaty sound that causes her heart to race. _Oh my God, tell me I didn't say that out loud? _

'No, little Lucy, you are just so _very_transparent.' Saxon smiles winningly. He seems to find her embarrassment amusing.

'I am?' Her cheeks feel as though they're on fire.

'Oh yes. In fact ... I happen to know exactly how you felt about me the very first time we met.' He cocks his head to one side and smiles into her eyes. Something that might be called lust throbs through her belly. She gulps.

'Y- You did?' Her heart is thudding so loud she's sure he must be able to hear it.

'Of course - because I felt the very same way about you...' and suddenly his mouth is on hers, his hands cupping her face gently. His body presses against hers and Lucy is left with no doubt about his feelings.

So it comes as no surprise to anyone that only four months after they first met and even before the autobiography has hit the shelves, Lucy Cole becomes Mrs Saxon. In quiet moments, Lucy can hardly believe it herself. Any lingering doubts she might have about the suddenness of it all are dispelled whenever Harry looks into her eyes and tells her what a darling she is, which he does often.

Things are fine until the election campaign begins to take more and more of Harry's time, so that sometimes Lucy doesn't see him for days on end and has no idea of his whereabouts. There are times, it seems, when neither do his campaign staff. Her phone calls go unanswered, or if he does pick up he's terse, distracted and very off-hand with her so that eventually she doesn't bother to call anymore. She becomes accustomed to wending her lonely way up the stairs to their silent apartment above the Saxon Campaign Office night after night. Harry often returns late, still brimming with energy, and exercises his conjugal rights even if he has to wake her to do so – which is more often than not. Mostly, Lucy feels that she can't complain about this because whatever else he is, he is an amazing lover - but there are times when he seems cold and distant, snapping at her if she's slow to wake or to give the correct response. She puts that down to the stress of the election campaign and puts up with it.

The only clouds on the horizon are the strange headaches Harry seems to suffer from time to time. They reveal a distress that is agonising for Lucy to witness. Time and again she begs him to see a Doctor, which only ever gets one response; a testy 'there's only one Doctor who can help me, and _he's_not available!' No matter how Lucy cajoles and begs, he won't be drawn on the matter and resolutely refuses outright to seek medical help. In fact, come to think of it, apart from the headaches he has never once been ill since Lucy has met him. While others, Lucy included, fall prey to seasonal coughs and colds and the like, Harry remains cheerfully hale and hearty. This makes the mysterious headaches all the more worrying.

The first time it had happened, Lucy had found him in his office. He'd been slumped over his desk with his hands pressed to his temples, muttering frenziedly under his breath.

She'd rushed to his side and had been dismayed by his expression - his eyes were fearful and dark with pain, sweat beading his brow. He'd shuddered and moaned as she'd exclaimed in surprise and Lucy had panicked, grabbing the phone. His reaction to this had been shocking, to say the least. He'd reached out and wrenched it from her grasp, flinging it away as though it were red hot.

'NO!' he'd shouted, only to slump back in his chair, his face grey with pain. Lucy had gaped at him in amazement, before anger born of fright had taken hold.

'Harry, you're being completely unreasonable!' she'd said firmly, grabbing his wrists as he kneaded his temples. 'You need to see a Doctor. This is more than a migraine; it looks serious!' _Please, don't let it be a tumour..._

Harry flings his arms wide, breaking her grip, and lunges to his feet, his face tight with anger.

'Don't ever' -and to her shock, he slaps her face - 'tell me I'm unreasonable!' And he slaps her again. As she stands speechless, face stinging, he staggers away from her.

Wrenching the door open he lurches out into the corridor and Lucy hears him shout 'Leave me alone!' at an unfortunate secretary as the sound of a shriek and fluttering papers tell the tale of his collision. Lucy races after him, but is too late as the door to the men's room slams in her face. She hears the sound of vomiting and sobs in her shock and misery. She waits by the door for a long time but he doesn't emerge and she's too afraid to follow him in. His only response to her repeated queries is to tell her in strained tones to 'Go away and leave me alone.'

Later that evening, having consumed rather more wine than is sensible, she finally finds the courage to enter their bedroom. Harry is lying comatose on the bed, still fully clothed, his shirt stained and creased. He seems to be asleep and looks peaceful, so different to the frantic man who'd slapped her that for one insane moment Lucy thinks she must surely have dreamed the whole thing. Only the stale stink of vomit and Harry's dishevelled state tells her it had been all too real. Tentatively she sits beside him and takes his hand.

'Oh, Harry...' she murmurs, and carefully unbuttons the soiled shirt, pulling it down his arms and away from him. Harry mutters and stirs fitfully but doesn't wake. She's been worried for quite some that he's doing too much, not sleeping enough, and this would seem to bear out her fears. He's suffering from exhaustion, nothing more, surely? Lucy has often joked with him that she doesn't believe he ever actually sleeps at all – he's always awake before her, and even when she's sated and sleepy after love-making he almost never falls asleep beside her, claming he still has work to do or fancies a bite to eat;' Can I get you something, darling? No? You sleep; I'll be with you soon,' and she never feels him return to their bed. Removing the rest of his clothes, she resolves to tackle him again in the morning about seeing a Doctor, and slips into bed beside him, hand on his chest to reassure herself that he's still breathing.

She sleeps fitfully, possessed by a dread she can't name; yet when she awakes, it's to the usual empty bed. Harry is nowhere to be seen, and enquiries of the staff about his whereabouts are met with a casual 'Oh, he's out on business, Lucy - he said to tell you that he'll catch up with you later.' Somehow, Lucy feels something is going on that she isn't privy to. But the worry of that is as nothing compared to her fears for Harry's health.

When finally he does return late that evening, he seems distant and preoccupied, replying to her 'How are you feeling?' with a frown and a curt 'I'm fine. Why do you ask?' He seems almost not to remember the incident so Lucy lets the matter drop but resolves to keep a careful eye on him, in case it happens again. Next time, she decides, she would call the Doctor out of his earshot; he couldn't argue with a fait accompli, could he?

The next time the headache strikes him they're making love. One moment he's in the throes of passion, his mouth on hers and his hand between her legs when she feels him shudder and stiffen. He moans and falls away from her, cursing and groaning, just as before.

'Uuuhh – fuck – will they _ever_stop!'

Passion forgotten, Lucy throws her arms around him, hugging him tight and rocking with him as he moans and weeps through the pain. He seems delirious this time, hardly seeming to know who she is as she sooths him gently. 'Sshh my love, sshhh...' she lays him back when the worst seems to be over, smoothing his brow.

'Harry, what is it? What's causing this? _Please_tell me...'

He swallows. 'The drums, the drums ... always the bloody drumming ... Why won't they leave me _alone_?' His eyes shoot open and he gasps, as if expecting to see someone else. 'Lucy...' With a shudder his eyes roll back in his head and he passes out.

'Oh God... Harry! Wake up, _please_wake up!' Lucy sobs, her tears splashing onto his face. He remains comatose and for one panic- stricken moment she fears the worst. She puts her head to his chest; thank god - his heart is still beating. Now she is definitely calling a doctor, since he's not in a position to argue... Wait – what's that? She lowers her head first to one side of his chest, then the other. There it is again. There are two heartbeats. What on earth...?

She's heard of people having extra organs; weren't they remnants of a dead twin, or organs in the wrong place or something? But he has _two _functional _hearts_? Had he _always_ had two? She racks her memory, but can't recall having noticed anything untoward before now. Although now she comes to think of it, his pulse had often seemed to race, but she'd put it down to excitement, had never measured it against her own. Perhaps _this_is the cause of his headaches? All that blood rushing around his body at twice the pressure...? Trembling, Lucy goes to the phone and keys in a number she has memorised in preparation for this moment.

'You really _don't_want to do that.'

She whirls to see Harry groggily pushing himself to a sitting position on the bed. Putting the phone down, Lucy goes to his side.

'Darling, I'm _really_ worried about you – you're not at _all_ well. We _must_call a Doctor-' Harry grabs her wrists and pulls her down beside him.

'And I've told you, _Darling, _no Doctors.' His tone is strange; a strangely calm and distracted air seems to envelope him. He looks at Lucy as if he'd forgotten she was there, and frowns.

'Well, now that you've discovered my little...secret... I suppose the honeymoon is over.' With that, he lays back, pulling her down with him. Confused, Lucy tries to sit up again but his grip on her hand tightens, preventing her from rising.

'Harry, what _are_ you talking about? _What_secret? And what do you mean, the honeymoon is over?' Despite her concern for him, Lucy begins to feel angry. He's talking in riddles. The unexpected violence of earlier, now this... could he have a brain tumour? It would certainly explain his odd behaviour.

'Lucy, my dear' - his hand strokes her face softly - 'this will come as a terrible shock to you I'm sure, but I am _not_Harry Saxon. 'Harry' was a disguise; a tool, nothing more.' He pushes her back against the pillows, and straddles her, his eyes glittering. He looks for all the world like a child about to tell a big secret, but his tone and the firmness of his grip on her wrists are anything but childlike.

Lucy's head is spinning, she doesn't get this. What does he mean by a _disguise_? Hiding what?

'Harry!' She gasps as his hand flies to her throat and squeezes – tighter and tighter until the blood roars in her ears and stars swim before her eyes. She grabs frantically at his wrists but he's unmoved, his grip on her windpipe relentless.

'No. Not Harry. I'm 'Harry' only in public, for now. In private and from now on you will call me _Master_.'

Just as Lucy's vision begins to darken, the grip on her windpipe eases and she gasps for air, her hands coming up to try and push him away from her. _He's gone mad!_'Harry, please don't do this –'

He watches her with a distant, amused expression, his grip tightening again until her head swims.

'Lucy, Lucy, Lucy... you really will have to learn a little faster if we're to remain close. You _must_call me Master.' He shakes her, back and forth and then suddenly releases her, so that she falls back against the pillows. Her distress seems to excite him and suddenly he's all over her; pulling her hair so that the curve of her neck is exposed, he licks and bites and covers her face in hungry kisses. His hands rip her clothes from her until she's naked and trembling, eyes streaming and gasping with shock as her husband, Harold Saxon, The Minister for Defence of England, brutally rapes her.

The following morning Lucy realises with a stab of terror that she's a prisoner in her own home. She's taken a long time to disguise her bruises with make up with the intention of paying a visit to her father, who has many contacts – he will doubtless know of a specialist who can help Harry. She'll help him even though he's unwilling to help himself and even if it means having to section him. It will mean the end of his political career, but Lucy doesn't care if he never makes Prime Minister - all she wants now is to have her Harry, the man she'd fallen in love with, back.

She almost makes it through the front door when an armed guard (how long had _they _been around? She can't recall) steps in front of her, barring her way. 'I'm sorry, Mrs Saxon. You're to stay indoors today - orders from Mr. Saxon.'

The way the man looks at her makes Lucy's skin crawl with embarrassment. What has Harry told the staff? She dreads to think. It's plain that Harry is not to be outwitted; he must have anticipated that she would seek help. She flees back to the apartment in an agony of fear, embarrassment and loathing at her own weakness.

For goodness' sake, this is the 21st century - Ministers do _not_beat, rape and keep their wives prisoners, at least not in the western world. The ever-present eye of the mass media would be quick to spot such a transgression, and Harold Saxon would be drummed out of office, arrested and dealt with.

She goes straight to the telephone, only to find that all outside lines are blocked. With a sinking feeling she tries her mobile and gets the same result. Why is Harry keeping her a prisoner in their own home? Is it to protect her, and if so, from what? Or has he gone insane?

Helping herself to the contents of the drinks cabinet (which is not locked and seems to have been restocked with everything she likes) she drowns her sorrows. Only when she stumbles from the lounge to the bedroom an hour later and sees the expression on the housekeepers' face as she passes the woman in the corridor, does she begin to have an inkling of what Harry must have told the staff. It's all very subtle and she's blindly playing the role he's written for her.

The next few days are a blur; a jumbled haze of fear and beatings and strange conversations in which Harry tells Lucy that he isn't actually Human at all, that in fact he's a 'Timelord' come to take revenge on someone he calls 'the Doctor'. He explains - as if it's the most reasonable thing in the world - that he intends to take over planet Earth and use it to wage war on the whole universe. The first time he tells her this, Lucy knows for certain that he's lost his mind. How can one man, a Politician who thinks he's an _alien_, take over the _universe_? The whole idea is ridiculous. She makes the mistake of voicing her opinion and earns a black eye for her trouble. Still she tries, in spite of the beatings, to convince him that she understands; that everything will be alright if only he'll see a Doctor. Each time she does so he becomes enraged to the point where Lucy realises that if she's to survive this, she'll have to find another way to help him.

She feels powerless to break free. Harry seems to anticipate every move and each time she tries the beating is worse than the last. He's very careful now to avoid her face – or anywhere it will show - but there are days when Lucy can barely stand. She learns to be a consummate actress around Harry because any slip will mean punishment later on. After a while, she finds it easier to pretend to herself that all is well – it makes it easier to behave as though it's true. Lucy learns to fool the world that Harry Saxon is the only candidate she will be voting for come Election Day. Only when she's alone does she let her guard down.

When Harry wins the election, it isn't the celebration Lucy had dreamed of all those months ago. She has been ordered to 'make yourself look gorgeous – and don't forget to smile.' Somehow she's managed to do both (or she supposes she had – that evening Harry is tender and considerate when he comes to their bed) and is at his side as the media clamour for sound bites. 'A kiss for the lady wife, Mr Saxon...?'

The turning point had come on the day that Harry won the Election, and the Journalist Vivian Rook came to see Lucy. Up until then, she had had still harboured the hope that her husband had simply gone mad – had either suffered a mental breakdown or had an underlying medical condition that had caused his behaviour to alter so drastically. As Vivian spoke of Harry's non-life prior to eighteen months ago, Lucy felt a shift in her perception of him. If he truly wasn't human (Lucy hadn't forgotten the double heart-beat but simply could not believe that it could be because Harold Saxon was an alien from another planet) then what was she to do?

Come to that, what was the human race to do? Harry – or the alien creature she is forced to admit he indeed appears to be - seemed to have the media of the world in the palm of his hand. All these thoughts race through her mind as the journalist speaks.

Lucy remembers her first reaction to Harry, the inexplicable fear followed by her wanton behaviour – presumably he had somehow hypnotised her as he got closer, and after that she had simply not seen the reality of him.

As Harry's dulcet tones sound from the door, sealing Valerie Rook's fate, Lucy finally accepts that 'her' Harry is really gone; had, in fact, never really existed at all. Lucy makes her decision. She'll have to play along if she is to remain alive; let him think he's bent her to his will. Perhaps then, she might be allowed more freedom and can find a way to stop this tragedy unfolding. As they wait in the corridor while the Toclafane silence the screaming journalist, Lucy remembers what Harry told her about the Archangel Network (it had seemed like insane fantasy at the time and she had tried so hard to put it out of her mind) and plays along with him. She expects her duplicity to be unmasked at any second and tries not to think about what form the punishment might take. But the Master believes her and holds her comfortingly as she manages to behave as if murdering Vivian Rook is an entirely reasonable thing to do. Afterwards, she's violently sick, which seems to amuse Harry no end. For the first time in weeks, he is tender with her that evening.

Then comes the day when he rushes into their apartment, flushed and practically dancing with glee, telling her that he had fired the entire cabinet. 'In fact, Lucy – you'll _love_this!' he claps his hands, grabs her and spins her around in a wild dance- 'I killed them, every last one! No more than they deserved, pompous idiots!'

His lips crush hers and his hands tear at her clothes. Afterwards, as she lays alone in their bedroom and weeps, Lucy begins to seriously consider her options. It will be difficult to get away – every meal is eaten either with Harry, or brought to her by one of the staff, who leave the food and depart without really making eye contact. It's a lonely existence – denied her work or access to her friends and family, and no company save that of her own or an increasingly manic Harry and the silent staff, Lucy mostly seeks oblivion. There seems to be no restriction on the amount of wine or other alcohol she can have – in fact Harry is partial to a drink himself, particularly when his headaches are at their worst. Lucy begins to almost look forward to those times, since it's when Harry (or The Master, as she still finds it hard to call him, a failure which earns her many beatings) is most like the man she married, before the insanity had taken hold of him.

After what seems like an age but is probably only days or perhaps weeks, she begins to realise that there is something else going on besides her husband's apparent breakdown. More armed guards have appeared on the streets, and the media are beginning to report on new laws and regulations which, quite frankly, would have caused uproar and demonstrations if the previous Prime Minister had dared to announce them. Is this the insane 'taking over the Earth' ramblings come to fruition?

She never gives up hope that she might be able to get through to him during one of his headaches, when the pain lays him low and she feels despair at her inability to do anything to help him, save holding him as he shivers and moans and beats his head with his fists. Usually he'll drink copious amounts of scotch before passing out. Sometimes he'll plead with her to help him, and she reassures him that all he has to do is let her call the Doctor. This usually earns her a backhander across the face, or worse. After a while she stops suggesting it. More than once she's contemplated killing him as he lays unconscious, but so far she's been unable to bring herself to do it. Even in her despair, Lucy still harbours the hope that something will happen to end this terrible nightmare.

As the months wear on the pretence begins to take its toll on Lucy. When the Master starts to bring in other women for amusement she drinks until she passes out so that she won't have to endure the sight of them cavorting in their bed or worse, be forced to join them. And its not just the women – at times their bedroom resembles a torture chamber and although she makes sure she's never around, she knows from whispers amongst the staff that he has his prisoners taken there, both male and female. There seems to be no limit to the things he will do and after a time she's grateful that he seems to have lost interest in her.

The hardest part is that in spite of it all and even knowing that the Master is an alien (the word feels strange on her tongue) he still looks sounds and smells like her beloved Harry and her body betrays her on a regular basis. Lucy doesn't know if her family is still alive; to all intents and purposes, Harry - or The Master, whoever or whatever he is - is her family now. She knows that this is wrong but feels powerless to resist. So Lucy carries on fooling herself, until sometimes she doesn't know what is true anymore. She forgets all about trying to find a way to stop the Master.

When the Toclafane pour through the wound in the sky and slaughter her fellow humans, she snuggles up to Harry and smiles. When she finally meets 'the Doctor' of whom Harry had often spoken, and the Master tortures and imprisons his fellow Time Lord and companions, Lucy stays by his side and smiles, even though her heart would break if she allows herself to think about it.

Lucy begins to stay away from the Doctor – he turns his sad eyes on her as if he knows everything she's done, understands her actions and still forgives her for them. Lucy can't look into those eyes and maintain her facade, so she won't look at him at all.

The Master grows more and more erratic, chaining the Doctor's companion Jack to the wall and forcing Lucy - or one of the hapless prisoners his men have captured - to shoot, stab or poison the man in return for their freedom while he, Harry, watches gleefully and then betrays them with a cold wave of his hand as he instructs the guards to kill them anyway. Lucy smiles even as she cries inside, for the poor man is impossible to kill and there can be no end to his suffering. But by now her smile is brittle, her steps faltering, and she's no longer sure where she is. Some days she isn't even sure _who_she is, as she clings to her sanity by a thread.

A year passes, during which time The Master lays waste to her beautiful planet, and murders her people, and still Lucy smiles. She doesn't know anymore, how to do anything else and finds that she craves the smallest crumb of comfort or affection from her Master. There is nothing else left in her world that she feels any attachment to, because to care is to be hurt. She thinks that she would kill anyone who threatens to take him from her; he has become her whole world. Its a sick and twisted world, but its all she has.

But when Martha Jones is finally caught and laughs at the Master even as he prepares to kill her, Lucy suddenly sees that he isn't invincible after all; Martha Jones has tricked him. For the first time since she has known him, Lucy sees her Master's certainty falter. And when the Doctor is restored by the power of human faith, Lucy sees her life as it has become.

This mad creature standing before them, who runs and cries like a child when his plans fall apart, is _not _her Harry. Her Harry died a year or more ago – in fact, he had died, for Lucy, the first time he raped her, she now sees. So when Francine Jones falters, Lucy sees what she must do. As the bullet tears into the Master, for one moment Lucy sees her Harry again and when the Doctor cries and cradles her Master's body, Lucy weeps with him.


	3. Chapter 3

Author's note: I apologise for the chapters being slightly out of sync – unfortunately I hadn't realised that the first part, the prologue, would be chapter one; so now chapter one is chapter two, two is three and so on. Hopefully it won't spoil your enjoyment too much...

Thank you to Brownbug for her review of Chapter One, and if I can please ask any other readers to leave a comment or two if they've read and enjoyed (or even if you didn't – I'd very much like to know why). It really does help! Okay, on with the show:

**'The Master Chronicles - Book One. Chapter Two: The Day After.' **

The blond woman in the red silk dress is unsuitably clad for the cold spring morning, shivering as the bitter wind whips viciously around her. She stumbles and trips in the pre-dawn light as she makes her unsteady way across the uneven ground towards the dying glow of the funeral pyre.

Sinking to her knees, Lucy Saxon scrabbles amongst the dying embers. She's looking for something, and doesn't appear to notice that the skin on her fingers is blistering as she sifts hurriedly through the hot ash. The wind creates little eddying swirls of grey dust which mar the perfect red silk of her dress but she doesn't notice that, either.

_Where is it?_

She's starting to panic. Would the Doctor have taken it? Does he know its significance? What will she do if it's not here?

She should have taken it from him as he lay on the flight deck of the Valiant, but she'd been too shocked by what she'd done, and then the American had taken the gun from her and ... even when she'd had a chance, as she wept over his cooling body before they'd pulled her away, she'd forgotten the instructions he'd given her...

_So what? You'll be free of Him! _Part of her ravaged mind whispers. And it's true – he _isn't_here to punish her for her failure, is he? But supposing someone else uses it – then he might still come looking for her, to find and punish her. He's so very good at punishment, after all. And she wouldn't recognise him, would she? Or perhaps she would... she's misty on the details. He did try to explain it to her, she remembers that much. She knows the ring was his insurance policy to enable him to survive if the Doctor had him killed. Which she remembers thinking was odd at the time, because the Doctor hadn't struck her as being capable of killing anyone, unlike Harry... But, like so much that's happened since she first met Harry Saxon, it's all hazy and disjointed in her mind. All she can be certain of is that she has to find Harry's ring and put it on her finger immediately.

'What happens then, Harry?' she'd asked nervously, because she was always nervous around him by then.

Harry Saxon had grinned – giving her his sly 'I know something that you don't' grin, the one she'd feared and hated, second only to his 'You've made me angry and now I'm going to hurt you' pout. One usually followed the other and both meant she was probably in for a beating at the very least.

'Oh, you'll find out, Lucy, don't worry. But I can tell you this much – it'll be good, _really_good. You'll love it.' He pauses, head on one side as he considers her.

'Well, actually, you might not. Love it, I mean. But _I _certainly will, and that's much more important!' He throws back his head and laughs uproariously. Lucy doesn't get the joke – she never does – and smiles timidly. She keeps smiling as he grabs her, squeezes her arm so hard that she winces in pain. Her smile finally fades as she waits for the mocking remark, the punishment for her stupidity.

His laughter stops as suddenly as it started; his mood change almost instantaneous. She's used to that, but quivers inwardly. What will it be this time? Another beating, perhaps – or maybe he'll just rape her and be done with it? She still can't read him and waits, her heart pounding in trepidation as he pushes her away from him until she's held at arm's length. His right hand releases its painful grip on her upper arm, moving to cup her chin. He tilts her head up a little and she swallows, frightened by the sudden ferocity in those wheat-coloured eyes.

'It's _very_ important that you wait until _after_I'm dead, Lucy. Got that?'

Lucy tries to nod but can only make the smallest movement with her head because her neck is stretched taut.

He smiles again and releases her, stepping away from her and back toward his desk. He's anxious to get back to work.

'Good. _Don't_forget.'

'Why?' the question has left Lucy's lips before she can stop shivers, wrapping her arms around her body and inwardly cursing her own stupidity.

He frowns, turning back to her with a sharp look. 'What?'

Lucy gulps. There's no going back now – if she doesn't continue he'll simply beat it out of her. Will she ever learn to keep her mouth shut? She's learned the hard way not to question him over anything of late, so why risk it now? 'Need to know, Luce, need to know,' he'd say. The implication being, of course, that she doesn't need to know. At first, he'd shared everything with her, made her a part of his scheme to become Prime Minister (somehow, his plan to 'help the inevitable along' with his Archangel Network had seemed daringly wicked – and almost certainly illegal, which made it all the more attractive in Lucy's eyes) but gradually that had changed. Once he was in power and plans for his new Time Lord Empire were well under way, he'd begun to snap at her when she asked what she considered to be pertinent and reasonable questions; why did he dislike the Doctor so much, what was his home planet like, when could she meet his family and where would he take her next, what clothes should she pack? The day he'd knocked her unconscious for asking why he had aged the Doctor and made him sleep in a tent on the main deck like a dog was the last time she'd asked him anything. Until now, that is. Somehow she finds her voice.

'Why... why do I have to wait until afterwards? Why not take the ring now, if it's so important?'

Her pulse hammers in her ears and she cringes in anticipation of the blow. It doesn't come.

'Why Lucy, darling – such a curious little mind you still have, even after everything ...' he pauses, lost in thought for a moment before shaking his head as if to clear it. 'Very well ... I suppose it won't hurt.' And he does so love to show off...

He strolls up to her and puts an arm around her shoulders, speaking softly into her ear as she tries very hard not to flinch. He hates to see her fear; it makes him unaccountably angry. At first he'd seemed to enjoy his ability to frighten her so easily, now it just annoys him.

'If I'm fatally injured, my sweet, you have to wait until _after _I've died because the bio-data transfer won't actually be completed until the point of death... there are certain... facets, if you like, that ...' he falls silent, then again there's that small shake of his head. He looks at her thoughtfully. 'Not that I'm _going _to die, of course! But if _he_ interferes the way he usually does, if he _dares_to try and stop me...' His tone has become intense, anger bubbling just below the surface. Suddenly he stops, as if realising that he might be telling her too much.

'Look, that's all _you_ really need to know. If anything happens to me, make sure I'm dead before you remove the ring and put it on, or I won't survive the process. And don't let _him_see you do it. That part's really important. Because if...'

Abruptly his mood changes again and he swings away from her, slapping her on the rear as he walks back to his desk and his laptop and his plans for universal domination. He's dismissing her again, as usual.

'Go on – off you trot! Go and ... oh, I dunno, paint your nails or something. Big day tomorrow - you've got to look your best!'

All this reels through her mind as she continues to search the cooling ashes. Finally her fingers brush against something that's not ash, something solid. For one horrified second she thinks she's found bone; then she feels the shape, sees the dull glint of metal. The ring!

It's still hot and dusty with ash but it seems intact – the metal hasn't melted nor has the strange design cracked. She wonders vaguely what it could be made of and if it will still do what it was designed for. Lifting it free of the clinging ash she wipes it on the delicate silk and slips it onto her finger. It seems a little too big but even as she contemplates trying a different finger she feels the hot metal clamping down, searing her flesh as it moulds itself to her.

She gasps in surprise and pain as a tingling sensation spreads from the ring into her finger. A strange feeling which isn't exactly pain follows, spreading into the small bones of her finger. It travels into her knuckles and then into the surrounding tissue. It's a peculiar, not-quite-pain feeling and Lucy isn't sure she likes it at all. She remains kneeling by the pyre, quite unable to move as the sensation grows and spreads inwards until she feels feverish. She doesn't remember when she stopped feeling cold but now she would welcome it, and pulls at the flimsy dress in a vain effort to cool herself down.

Her hair is being blown into her face by the stiff dawn breeze and as she puts up a hand to push it out of her eyes, she catches sight of her hand and stops, stares at it in confusion.

Lucy has always been proud of her slim, elegant fingers and the shapely nails which, as Harry had so dryly pointed out, she loves to paint.

This hand is broader, the fingers shorter and thicker, the nails neatly clipped. She tries to cry out but her voice is hoarse, her mouth dry. That isn't her hand...!

A suspicion grows as the hand continues on its interrupted journey to flick the hair out of her eyes, only to find that she no longer has long hair. It's short, cropped around the back of her neck to shape her ears... her vision wavers and the sky spins. She closes her eyes and falls forward onto her hands and knees.

There's a sudden pain in her lower left abdomen and she presses a hand to it as she feels a warm wetness there. She's frightened to look because suddenly she knows... but how can this be possible...? She brings her hand up and sees blood glistening and now she can feel the searing pain of the bullet wound. _His_ bullet wound. She opens her mouth to scream but just as suddenly, the pain subsides. There's a peculiar burrowing sensation there instead, moving up towards the skin. Terrified to look but unable not to, she glances fearfully down and sees the red silk fading until now it's white. No longer silk but cotton. There's a perfectly round but ragged hole in the shirt, the material around it stained blood-red. The squirming sensation in her gut continues until suddenly it stops – there's a stretching sensation then something hard rolls against her skin, falling down inside the shirt. She has no need to look to know what it is. Her body – _his_body – has rejected the bullet, spat it out.

As she continues to look on in horror, black cloth seems to grow out of nowhere until she's wearing a suit. She doesn't need to touch or look to know that she no longer has breasts. Somehow he has changed her body into his. It shouldn't be possible, but it is. This is what he didn't want her to know...

A sob escapes her and it doesn't sound like her voice anymore. Lucy doesn't have the words to describe the horror she's feeling. She wails, but it's not Lucy Saxon's voice that cries out in fear and anger.

'No – you – don't – you _can't_ – you – never said – this would – Harry, _no_! No, _please...' _She pounds her head with hands – his hands - which feel large and clumsy. She wants him out.

'Get _out_ – of – my mind! No – this isn't _fair_– I don't want –'

She can feel his presence pushing at the edge of her mind; no words yet, just him; there, insistent. He's testing her defences, wanting access. She can't...

Lucy scrambles to her feet, stands swaying in the dawn light. She feels ... odd, disconnected from her – his – body. She looks down at black shod feet, feels dizzy and takes a step away from the dying fire to avoid falling into it. She stumbles clumsily, takes another step and another, hands held outwards to balance herself as she adjusts to his body. Harry is angry now – she can feel him, battering at her defences. He wants entry, wants control of His body. But it's _her_body – He's stolen it, changed it, and now He wants to invade her mind too.

Something finally snaps within her and for perhaps the first time in her cosseted life, Lucy knows rage; cold fury at the injustice of it. She feels the alien mind flinch in surprise as her anger brings a surge of adrenalin. Her hearts –_hearts_! - pound uncomfortably in her chest and she gasps as richly oxygenated blood floods her body. She feels strong – invincible and absolutely convinced of her right to her own flesh, no matter what it has been fashioned into by _him_. She refuses to give him_that_name.

She stumbles on, thinking furiously, trying to keep her wits despite the now almost constant and painful pounding within her head. She desperately tries to recall the meditation classes she took at University. She isn't sure it will help, but it's worth a try, surely? If only she can remember... her head feels as if it's about to split open. Suddenly she imagines a door. He's on the other side of it, pounding, pounding; demanding that she let him in. She imagines a bolt at the top, and draws it across, and then another and yet another under that. When she's done with the bolts, she imagines a room – her room at home, containing all her childhood comforts. She staggers into it, weak now, the fury spent and cold fear following fast in its wake. She shuts and locks the door and crawls into her soft bed. Pulling the covers over her head, she sighs with relief and falls into a deep sleep.

The Master stumbles and falls onto his knees. Something isn't right... he feels dizzy, disorientated and weak. Did something go wrong? He knows the theory well enough – mixing Time Lord Physiology with that of other species can –and often does- go horribly wrong. The Human race is a particularly bad choice –they have such pathetically small minds! - But since it had been the only option open to him he'd had to take the risk. He knows that regeneration would have been the sensible course, but leaving aside the fact that the Doctor had wanted it so badly, he'd had good reason not to take that route – he doesn't know how many regenerations he has left and until he can find out, he isn't about take that particular escape route again. Having to regenerate from Yana's damaged body had been unforeseen but had worked, thank Rasillon. And now of course he knows that because the Doctor has destroyed Gallifrey, it will be all but impossible to find out. He pushes down the anger. He needs to concentrate...

The bio-data contained within the ring should have been enough, containing everything he would need for a partial regeneration, without conceding defeat to the Doctor. He hadn't expected Lucy to take matters into her own hands though, and wonders idly if, in her damaged mind, she had thought he wanted it... No matter, it had been good to see the Doctor's distress and that's compensation enough.

But he shouldn't be feeling like _this_... It's normal to need a period of recuperation, but since this isn't true regeneration ... It couldn't be, given that his corporeal body had been destroyed by the flames. His experiments had proved this could be done, thanks to Professor Lazarus; since Lazarus' death, the Master had managed to iron out the bugs in that procedure. Now he should inhabit, to all intents and purposes, his former body – courtesy of flesh kindly donated by Lucy Saxon plus all the information contained in the bio-data device disguised as a ring. He knows who he is and has all his memories intact, as far as he can tell.

So why does he get the overwhelming feeling that something is not right? His hand flies to the ring on the opposite hand – it's safe on his finger, but loose now. He traces a finger over the intricate Gallifreyan design and feels a tingling. The download hasn't completed! Why? Did he make an error in his calculations? He's certain that he didn't. What is missing, what _hasn't_downloaded? Without the labs (lost to him now) he can't tell. He'll simply have to find somewhere quiet and secluded to hole up and try to kick-start the rest of the download, or he could be in trouble. He fingers the ring, more than a little worried by its looseness. He'll have to be careful not to lose it. If the vital bio-data strands covering regeneration haven't transferred, he'll have to be even more careful. If fatal injuries are sustained during this vital period, and the ability to regenerate _has_been compromised – assuming he has any left, of course - then he could die on this miserable backwater of a planet.

And where's Lucy? He'd expected to find her here, cowering in a corner of her mind while he takes control of her body and eventually merges his DNA with hers. It will mean the eventual and complete disintegration of everything that makes Lucy Saxon who she is; but that can't be helped. He suddenly shivers. He raises his head and looks around him, seeing his surroundings properly for the first time.

He's in a grassy clearing, surrounded by woodland. Where the hell...? He glances back and sees the grey ash of the funeral pyre. He shivers again. His mind seems to be running too fast; suddenly he can't think clearly. No... not that! He knows the theory well enough – burn out. Metacrisis. If this _is_the problem then Lucy's brain will burn out, the body will die and so will he, with no hope of regeneration if his abilities have been compromised. Fear threatens to overwhelm him - he'd wanted one last victory over the Doctor, but now that victory begins to seem a hollow one.

His last memory is of the Doctor's tear-stained face above his; sinewy arms clutching him tight and the Doctor's warm tears splashing onto his face, his voice brokenly imploring him – 'Just regenerate!' He remembers the searing _pain_ of Lucy's bullet in his gut and that _blissful_moment when the drums finally stopped their incessant pounding. Then...nothing. No more pain. Until now...

Suddenly fearful, he searches his mind for any hint of the drums, but there's nothing. Oh, the novelty of being able to think without that infernal beat worrying away at the back of his mind... suddenly he laughs out loud for the joy of it. Free of the bloody things at last! He shivers again, and is reminded of his urgent need to find shelter. Got to get warm, and...Was there something else? The ring – that's it.

Pushing himself to his feet, the Master tries to gauge direction. The sky is grey, overcast now that daylight has arrived. The sun... it's hard to judge because of the bloody cloud cover. He wishes he'd chosen a country with a warmer climate to seize power... but remembers that his choice had been dictated by the Doctor. For some inexplicable reason he seems to favour Great Britain, specifically England; London, if he's going to be really anal about it. So he hadn't really had a choice, had he? Trust the Doctor to choose such an inhospitable climate. _Not so much the goody two-shoes now are you, Doctor_, he thinks spitefully as he remembers their conversation. How _dare_ the Doctor presume to forgive _him when_ all along _he'd _been nursing the knowledge of what _he_had done? It's still genocide, Doctor ... Time war or no time war. How does that feel? Not so perfect anymore, then.

His thoughts are wandering and he realises that he's still standing, shivering, in the clearing. He needs to concentrate! He's lost all sense of direction and realises that his inner time/space compass is no longer working. Apart from the climate, he could be in darkest Africa for all he knows, or on the lost moon of bloody Poosh. He strikes out randomly, pulling his jacket close and hunching his shoulders against the biting wind.

After walking for a few minutes the woodland is closer and he sees a gravelled footpath which heads slightly uphill. There's no-one else about and he's alarmed to realise that he's beginning to feel breathless and giddy. He can see a wooden bench set beside the path up ahead and stumbles towards it. He just needs to rest for a moment, catch his breath.

He reaches the bench and all but falls onto it. It's so bloody _cold_... Now he wishes for that luxurious overcoat with the red silk lining and wonders where it is. The Doctor has probably pinched it. _He's probably sobbing over it right now_, the Master thinks spitefully, _wailing his loss_. So the Doctor is all alone ... big deal. The Master thinks he should be used to it by now. The pair of them have _always_been alone, really – neither one of them ever fitted in, after all. He tries to ignore the thought that says that the background chatter of other Timelord voices, although often irritating, was also a reminder of happier times. He mentally shrugs this thought aside. Nostalgia is overrated.

He comes to with a start; he's slumped over on the bench, his face pressed uncomfortably against the cold wood. Something touches his shoulder and he jerks in fright and looks up to see a face looming above him.

'I said, are you okay, Mate?'

The Master straightens up slowly, every stiff muscle protesting painfully. He blinks, bringing the face into focus. It belongs to a scruffy man of indeterminate age – long greasy hair, streaked with grey, his features lined and weather-beaten. His clothes are equally scruffy and none too clean, judging by the odour.

The Master opens his mouth to tell the malodorous old git to go away, but he's suddenly dizzy and slumps back onto the bench with a quiet groan.

'What's your name, mate?'

Reluctantly, the Master recognises that this shabby old human represents help, of sorts. For one thing, he doesn't recognise him as Harold Saxon. For another, he knows he'll die if he stays where he is, and he's not sure where he is or where to find shelter. So he will have to accept help from this disgusting specimen of humanity. For now.

'H- Harry...' He finally manages from between jaws chattering with cold. He should really have an alias, but it's all he can do to form the words, never mind come up with a new name.

'Well, 'Arry my son, you ain't gonna last long if you stay out 'ere. Gonna be a cold night, reckon. I know a better spot to kip down, if you wanna follow me?'

The Master can only nod, and humiliatingly he's forced to accept the tramps' help in rising from the bench. His spine unbends reluctantly and painfully.

'Wha- what time... is it?' He croaks, as the old man leads him along the path. The day is considerably darker than he remembers it and as he stumbles along, snow begins to fall.

'Don't know, 'xactly, but its past noon. Time to be findin' a bed for the night. Best spots get taken early, this weather.' The tramp hawks and spits noisily and the Master shudders.

_Noon_! The Master is horrified. He's slept – or been unconscious – for several hours, hunched on that cold bench. No wonder he feels so ill. Humans have a word for what he suspects he's suffering from – hypothermia. He's suddenly thankful that the old man stopped to help him – he almost certainly saved the Master's life. The Master unaccountably feels that some acknowledgement of this is needed; but it's all he can do to put one foot in front of the other. Making conversation is beyond his abilities right now.

They shuffle on, slowly. Too slowly for the old mans' liking – he's almost pulling the Master along now. The snowfall gets heavier, coating his shoulders, melting in his hair and trickling down the back of his neck. The flakes spatter disconcertingly against his face and he blinks constantly. Sound becomes muffled as the path turns white underfoot and the Master feels as if he's in a waking nightmare. Every few steps his smooth-soled shoes slip on the deepening snow and he's only kept upright by the solid presence of the man at his side. The old man doesn't say much, just murmurs encouragement and pulls him on when Harry stops, as he does frequently. He's totally disorientated, has no idea which way they're headed and quite frankly, he doesn't care. His world dwindles to putting one foot in front of the other, like an automaton as his head whirls with increasing frequency. He longs to just give in; lie down and close his eyes.

A hand is slapping his face repeatedly and none too gently. Anger flares and he snarls a warning, bringing a hand up to fend off his attacker.

'Steady on, 'Arry – 'ere, drink this. It'll warm you up a bit.'

The tramp tips a metal cup against the Master's mouth – the liquid that trickles between his lips is cold, but as he swallows, he feels a warm blossoming in his gullet. Its effect is almost instantaneous – heat floods his frozen limbs and he lets his head fall back as a delicious heaviness weighs his body down. He feels a sudden urge to laugh.

'S'bloody – wunerful...' he slurs. 'More...'

'Blimey, no – only need a tot, just to warm you 'frew and settle you down. Too much and it'll make you ill. When'd you last eat, mate?'

The Master tries to remember, shakes his head from side to side.

'Don't...know...' He feels sleep claiming him, but struggles to say something he feels is important.

'Thanks...'

George regards the sleeping man with concern. He's younger than most of the men –and women- he sees on the streets. Hard to put a definite age to him; probably mid-thirties if he had to guess.

Whoever he is, he's totally unprepared for a night sleeping rough; the silly sod is wearing a lightweight suit – good quality, mind – and expensive shoes. He'll have to keep an eye on those or he'll lose them before he can turn round. No overcoat, scarf or gloves, either... He's got a ring though – odd bit of jewellery for a bloke to be wearing, a bit showy. There's nothing else in his pockets; he'd checked. You can't be too careful these days. If the bloke had any weapons George wouldn't have been so keen to help. But he's got nothing; no weapons, no wallet, no phone – none of them fancy gizmos his sort usually carry. Perhaps he's been mugged, but George can't see any obvious injuries. He's clean, well fed – but pale. It's a mystery, alright.

He throws another blanket over the sleeping man – although they're out of the wind under the bridge, it's far from warm. What's his story? He looks like a city type – stock broker, maybe. George looks again – hard to tell in the flickering light from the burning oil drum but there's something kind of familiar about him, now he comes to think on it. He remembers thinking the same thing when the bloke had first lifted his face from the park bench – but George had been more concerned with getting him moving before he froze to death to give it much thought then. Now, though, George is sure he's seen him somewhere before.

George pulls his own blankets closer about him. No doubt he'd find out in the morning - if the bloke survived the night.

The Master squares up to Lucy. She's taller than he remembers, and she's angry. How can that be? She's shouting at him.

'You _stole_my body!' she cries, beating his chest with frantic blows. 'I want it back, you thieving bastard!'

Normally he likes it when she curses – the prim and oh-so-proper Lucy bad-mouthing him is a real turn-on. Now, all he feels is astonishment.

Suddenly she's pushing him, forcing him backwards. Caught off balance, his foot catches on something and he falls. A shower of sparks flies up around him and he realises he's on fire. He reaches his hands out towards her as he tries to regain his feet but his clothes are burning, his skin is burning and as he gasps for breath hot air scorches his lungs. Lucy is grinning, just out of reach, taunting him.

'Now you can see what its like! What's it like, Harry? Tell me! Harry! Answer me, Harry!'

He opens his mouth and flames erupt from it. He screams.

''Arry! 'Arry – wake up! It's just a bad dream, mate; c'mon, calm down.'

George and his companion William look at each other across the body of the man who calls himself Harry, as he moans and writhes on the makeshift bed in the underpass. His face is dripping with sweat and he flings blankets aside in his frantic delirium.

George places a hand on Harry's forehead – he's burning up.

''E's bad, Will, really bad. What we gonna do?'

William pulls none-too-clean gloves off and tentatively puts his hand on Harry's forehead. He snatches it away, as if bitten.

'Bloody 'ell, George – 'e oughta be dead!'

'I know – never seen a fever like it.' George gnaws a grimy fingernail. 'We gotta get 'im to 'ospital, Will.'

'I dunno...' William hates and fears hospitals. He worries that the next time he goes through those doors, he's not coming out. So he stays well clear.

'We gotta do somethin' – 'e'll die on us if we jus' leave him like this. And you know what that means, doncha!'

The two men aren't strangers to death. It's something of an occupational hazard, if living on the streets is an occupation. But this stranger isn't a junkie who's overdosed, or an old-timer who's weak and ill. He's smart, well-dressed, and young. If he dies here, the cops will be all over them like a rash, which is the last thing either of them wants.

William grunts. 'I don't wanna go near no 'ospital, George. You know I don't.'

George sighs. 'This one'll be trouble, I jus' knows it. Look at 'im, Will. I mean, really look at 'im. I know 'im, I jus' can't place 'im...'

William leans in close, looks closely at the man called Harry for the first time.

'Yeah... I know what you mean, George – now where've I seen that face?'

George coughs consumptively, spits to one side.

'I thought 'e looked kinda familiar firs' time I set eyes on 'im – said to meself, 'I knows you from somewhere, young fella.' But blowed if I know where.'

Harry sighs and stills for a moment, as if disturbed by their voices. Then he shudders violently and begins to shake, curling in on himself.

'Bloody 'ell, now what...?' George bends over, grunting with the effort, and touches Harry's forehead. He straightens back up with a groan.

'Now 'e's gone all cold. It's the fever. 'Ere, wrap 'im up again, would 'ya? I can't bend down again, never mind get up. Will?' He turns to look at his friend, who is staring at the shivering man, recognition plain on his face.

'Wassup now?'

'I know 'oo 'e is, George! Bloody 'ell!' Will takes a step backwards.

'Well come on – don' keep it a bloody secret! 'Oo is 'e?'

William licks his cracked lips nervously. 'You ain't gonna b'leive it.'

'Will...' George growls, annoyed by William's theatrics.

''E's that Saxon fella, ain't 'e! Off the telly – y'know! The fella what offed that Yank President on the weekend... you remember... it was all on the telly, caused a right old stink – we was over at Nobbys...?'

And suddenly George knows who Harry is – the features are eerily familiar and he wonders why he hadn't seen it straight off.

'Bleedin' 'ell! Willy, me boy – we only got ourselves the bloody Prime Minister!'

The two men stand and stare in amazement as Harold Saxon, Prime Minister of Great Britain, shivers and moans at their feet.

'Reckon there'll be a reward? Wanted man an' all?' William wonders, self interest piqued.

George frowns. 'Dunno. Doubt it. Reckon 'e did us all a favour, you ask me.'

'Still murder though, innit?'

'Yeah. And 'e's still sick. We gotta get 'im to the 'ospital. It don't matter 'oo 'e is, end of the day, does it?'

'Nah, I s'pose not...' William mutters.

George snorts. 'Come off it – what'd you do wiv the dosh anyway, mate? Buy a 'ouse? Get a motor? An everythin' that goes wiv all that?'

William looks George in the eye. His grizzled features break into a gap-toothed grin.

'Yeah – you're right I s'pose. 'Ow we gonna do it?'

George considers for a minute. 'S'pose we'll 'ave to get an ambulance.' He rummages in his pockets, comes up with a five pence coin. 'I dunno if that'll be enough – you got any dosh, Will?'

Will searches his pockets, hands over a ten pence coin.

'Ta. Should be enough.' He shuffles off, stops. 'Try an' keep 'im warm, Will. Be a waste if 'e's dead when they get 'ere.'

George hobbles off, anxious now to get Harry Saxon out of their hair. As he hurries along, he remembers everything about Saxon. He's got a lovely wife – skinny blond bird, pretty as a picture. George hadn't voted, of course, but if he'd been in a position to do so, he'd have definitely cast a vote for Saxon. He'd made sense, was how George saw it. None of this putting the rest of the world first crap, like they all seemed to spout these days, while people here needed help. No – Saxon had his finger on the pulse all right, and he proved it. Biggest majority in the history of parliament was what they said. Shame he had to go and spoil it all by murdering the Yank like that. Yeah, the bloke was trouble, everyone knew that; but now Saxon was on the run and no way they'd let him back into Number 10 after this, was there? Shame. Maybe they'd put that woman back in – what was her name? Jones. Yeah, she was okay – a bit upper crust but then aren't they all. George doesn't follow current affairs that closely, but he's aware that relations between the US and Britain are at an all-time low following the murder of their president by the British Prime Minister – how could they not be? There's even talk of war, which given the current state of the British Army (and George knows all about that from bitter experience) is a worrying prospect. And George isn't daft – he knows that taking Saxon to hospital is as good as handing him over to the cops. But the way he sees it, being banged up for a spell at Saxon's age is a damn site better than dying on the bloody streets. Especially when you've got a wife like his to go home to...

William stands nervous guard over Saxon. It's weird to think that the wretched man shivering at his feet is (or was) the Prime Minister... bit of a come-down, lad, isn't it? He's not entirely sure that he agrees with George's assessment of the murder of the US President. Even if he's right, murder is murder, whichever way you look at it. Still, it's got nothing to do with him, has it? If George wants to play the Good Samaritan, let him. George has been good to William over the years. They didn't always see eye to eye but they help each other out and at the end of the day they're mates.

Saxon starts to thrash around amid the pile of blankets again. It's a nasty fever, alright. As William tries to put the blankets back over him, Saxon's hand knocks his own away. There's a glitter and a clinking sound as something flies off Saxon's finger and drops to the ground. For a moment it's obscured by the blankets as Saxon flails around, sweat running down his face.

William bends down, pushing the blankets aside, and picks up the ring. He holds it up to the light from the brazier. Doesn't look like much – to tell the truth, it looks like cheap costume jewellery. Why would such an important man be wearing it? It must be worth more than it looks. It's well made, he realises, as he runs grubby fingers over the strangely patterned surface. It's an odd design... doesn't look like it means anything; certainly not initials, that's for sure. He's about to grab Saxon's hand and slip the ring back onto his finger when he stops. Bloke isn't going to need it in prison, is he? Probably get stolen anyway. William briefly contemplates putting it on, but his fingers are too thick, the joints swollen with arthritis. Besides, if George saw him wearing it... but it's not really thieving, is it? They'd given him shelter, a bit of booze, and now George is calling an ambulance... call it payment in kind, lad. Probably not worth that much anyway, William thinks as he drops it into his pocket. He'll get it checked out later.

He turns to see George hobbling back.

'They're on their way,' he puffs. He stops, panting hard, and considers Saxon, who continues to moan and mutter, his face flushed with fever. His voice seems weaker now and George thinks it could be touch and go.

''Ow's he been?'

''Bout the same – hot and cold, y'know.'

The two men wait a few minutes longer, then their courage finally fails them and with a mutual nod of silent agreement they take their leave.

'Good luck, mate,' George mutters. With a grunt, he leans down and pats Saxon's shoulder, drawing the discarded blanket back over him.

They shuffle off, bags banging against their legs as they melt into the darkness.

The sound of sirens cuts the air and the Master flinches and opens his eyes. He pushes himself up onto his elbows and looks around in confusion. What's that noise?

'Shit!' He flings blankets aside, rolls painfully onto his hands and knees and pushes himself to his feet, coughing. His legs feel like rubber and his whole body shakes with fever but somehow he manages to stay on his feet.

He can see the flashing lights now and the siren is still some distance away but getting louder by the second. He doesn't know what service they belong to, but whatever they are he feels without knowing why that they'll be bad news for him. He lurches away, aiming for the darkness at the edge of the underpass, away from the road.

He hears the throaty roar of the engine as the ambulance comes to a halt, the sound reverberating around the enclosed space of the underpass. Doors slam, the radio blares static and voices rise and fall on the bitter wind. He keeps walking, head down.

_Don't run, they'll see you. _

He stumbles on, leaving the lights and the voices behind. At least its no longer snowing, he realises with relief. He wishes he'd taken one of the blankets – away from the relative shelter of the underpass the wind is bitingly cold. It whips through his thin suit, chilling the flesh underneath. Within minutes his ears, nose, chin and hands are numb. Even the top of his head feels as if it doesn't belong to him. The pain in his head is constant now, making his head swim. It takes all his concentration to remain upright.

His mind starts to wander as he puts one foot in front of the other. Left, right, left, right... _keep going, don't think, just walk_... He has to find somewhere warm and dry. He keeps going, long after his legs have lost all feeling, too. He's on automatic pilot, barely conscious...a walking machine.

He doesn't register the street lights at first – it's a distraction from the all-consuming need to keep walking. He blinks as the light penetrates the fog in his mind. _Got to get out of the light. Got to keep going_. He's long forgotten why, he just does it. Left, right. His foot catches on an uneven paving slab and he stumbles, puts out a hand to break his fall. His cheek grazes rough brick and realises he's walked into a wall. He blinks, tries to focus, tries to push himself away from the wall and carry on. But his body has other ideas and he falls to his knees. By the time he hits the ground he's unconscious.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Three was so long that I've had to split it into two parts! So here is part one:

**The Master Chronicles - Book One.  
>Chapter Three – Discovery (part one)<strong>

His ears are assaulted by a loud thumping beat and the babble of happy, drunken voices. The clink of glasses adds itself to the mix and as he as he sits dazedly upright a door opens and closes. The warm, yeasty air of a busy pub wafts over him. It's a sickly smell and he swallows, nauseated.

How did he come to be here? Where _is_ here? He feels wretched – weak, disorientated and breathless, as if he's been running. What would he be running from? He leans against a nearby wall, trying to catch his breath. He shudders with cold and suddenly realises that he's thirsty, almost unbearably so.

The very idea of going into that ... place... with the noise, the press of people and the stink of beer and smoke makes him shudder and another wave of nausea hits him. But he's never been one to deny himself anything he wants or needs; so he steels himself, takes a deep breath and pushes away from the wall, heading into the entrance lobby. He's reaching for the door when suddenly it's flung open and his hand is smashed painfully against the lobby wall. His anger flares and he turns to the perpetrator with an incoherent snarl. Within seconds he's surrounded.

There are five of them - young males, all swagger and attitude and threat - belligerence fuelled by alcohol and testosterone. They're not in the mood to apologise and don't accept that his anger has any merit. As he glares at them they press closer, pushing him back out into the street and around the side of the building, their voices full of scorn and hatred. Spoiling for a fight. Dizzy and weak, he's unable to do anything except try to stay on his feet. As they push him backwards.

''Ere – don' you give _me_ the eye, yer bloody tosser!' A face is thrust into his, beer-breath assaults him and then he's staggering backwards, off balance as a fist punches him in the shoulder, hard.

Despite his weakness, he's still angry and hasn't yet fully recognised the danger he's in. He tries to pull himself upright, looks down his nose at them. Not easy, given that at least three of them are taller than he is. Stupid fools – height notwithstanding, they'll be no match for... His thoughts stutter to a halt as he registers the blank in his mind where a name should be. He's pushed backwards again and stumbles. As he flails wildly to regain balance, he stumbles into someone standing behind him.

'Oi – thas' assult! I'll 'ave you now, you little shit –'

Too late, he finally realises that he's in trouble. A blow to his kidneys almost sends him to his knees but before he reaches the ground he's grabbed from behind, held upright, and another fist connects with his stomach. He doubles over, winded. Before he can draw breath he's yanked upright again and a fist slams into his face. Blood spurts and for a moment his vision goes dim. As it clears, he tries to speak, but all he manages is a gasp as his shoulder is roughly grabbed and he's spun, pushed from thug to another, blows raining from all directions. They surround him now, circling like wolves hungry for blood.

'Nice suit, Mister!' A punch to the solar plexus and he doubles over again, gagging.

' Wotcha doin' in our manor then?' He's hauled upright again and a fist connects with his jaw, snapping his head back. He swings wildly, hitting nothing but air. It's not supposed to be like this...it's not fair... he'll make them pay...

' Slummin' it are ya?'

Another fist connects with his stomach and he retches, falling to his knees. His palms sting as they slap against tarmac and his vision whirls. Blinking, he shakes his head in a vain effort to clear it. He senses rather than sees that his attackers are closing in for the kill and curls in on himself to protect his vital organs. A savage kick to the legs sends him to the ground, his cheek painfully grazing the tarmac. So far he's managed not one coherent word to them, recognises that words will have no power against their blood-lust. Still, he tries between blows to reason with them, buy time so that he can retaliate.

'No- please – I - don't -' shame and desperation as he hears himself beg heat his face. Before he can wonder at this, a boot connects to the side of his head and suddenly all he hears is a ringing, rushing sound, as if something inside him has irretrievably broken. For a moment his vision goes dark and when it returns he's on his back, groaning as the wolves stand over him, jeering and spitting.

'Bleedin' tosser – we don't want your sort in our boozer!' Spittle lands on his face and he flinches. Now – finally - he's afraid.

'Ere, go 'frough his pockets, Gaz – 'e's gotta be loaded, innit?' Hands scrabble roughly through his pockets, becoming more frenzied as each search reveals nothing of any value.

'Fuck it – 'e's already bin done over! Bleedin' waste of time that was!'

Another kick and suddenly they're all going for him in earnest, their anger fuelled by disappointment. He curls up, tries to roll onto his knees and covers his head with his arms for what seems like an eternity. He barely hears their jeering now, or feels the final parting kick which cracks a rib. Their voices recede and he realises they have grown tired of him. He manages to crawl forward, keeps crawling because perhaps they will come back. He doesn't know how far he gets before he blacks out.

*

He's so _cold_. He just wants to sleep – anything to get away from the relentless _pain_. But something nags at the back of his mind and won't let him rest. With a groan, he warily opens eyes which feel swollen and sees nothing but darkness. The ground beneath him is cold and damp, the air sharp with frost. It burns his throat as pain stabs suddenly through his head and he draws a ragged breath. Nausea uncoils itself and suddenly he's retching helplessly, rolling instinctively but unsuccessfully to avoid soiling his clothes, each movement making the pain and the nausea worse. When at last the vomiting subsides, he lays panting and shivering, exhausted.

He tries hard to remember what he'd been doing prior to passing out, and in response his mind supplies jumbled and disjointed images. He sees himself surrounded by a group of youths, being pushed from one to another as they taunt and jeer at him. Alcohol – they stank of it, he remembers. He recalls being pushed to the ground, winded, and then pain – so much pain - as they kicked him for what seemed like a very long time. Then they were gone, and an indeterminable time later, here he is.

But _where_ is he? His memory supplies no answers, and another question follows hot on its heels – _who_ is he? His heart hammers in his chest in violent palpitations as he tries to remember his name, and fails. The thought comes unbidden that perhaps he's dying. It hadn't been like this last time... _Last time_? The strangeness of _that _thought brings him upright from his prone position on the cold ground and sets off a fresh spasm of retching. He swallows bitter bile and groans miserably.

Moving slowly in an effort to avoid further nausea, he hugs himself in a vain effort to find warmth. He begins to think that he'll die if he stays where he is. The thought of moving is not at all appealing; but then neither is dying.

A raging thirst grips him, so intense that it's almost a physical pain. He has to find water, and fast. Gritting his teeth, he feels around him with outstretched arms in the darkness. His hand touches something solid behind him – a wall. It, like the ground beneath him, is cold and wet. Shuffling slowly backwards until he's finally sitting upright against it, he takes another slow, deep breath before drawing his legs under him and pushing upwards.

Muscles grown stiff with cold and bruising protest but at last he's on his feet. His head swims alarmingly, made worse by the pitch blackness, which makes orientating himself difficult. Thankfully the nausea remains in the background although his head throbs sickeningly, and he has no doubt that any sudden movement will incapacitate him again.

He holds a hand up in front of his face, opens his eyes wide – still nothing. Is it really this dark or is he _blind_? The thought sends terror coiling around his stomach and he gulps as bile rises up his throat.

A sudden sound startles him; he swallows and draws in another painful breath. There's the screech of a bolt being drawn back and a door is flung open. Blinding light sears his eyes, sending pain stabbing into his skull. He hears himself cry out as he clamps his eyelids shut, flinging up an arm up to protect his sight. He retches again and staggers forward, his balance gone.

'Bloody 'ell!' A rough voice shouts in surprise, booming against his eardrums. Rough hands grip his arms and shove him back against the wall. There's an explosion of pain as the back of his head connects with the brickwork – then merciful darkness.

*

'Kath! Call the filth!' Frank Barker, landlord of the 'Bird in Hand' public house, lets go of the intruder and steps backward, almost falling over the bin liner full of rubbish he'd dropped in surprise moments earlier. He pulls an expression of annoyance as the man crumples to the ground in front of him.

'Bleedin' junkies! Why'd they always 'ave to choose _my_ backyard, that's what I wanna know?'

He eyes the unconscious young man lying awkwardly at his feet with disgust. He's well-dressed – or at least, he had been. The once smart black suit is now crumpled and stained with blood and what smells like vomit and the man's face is swollen and bloodied. Frank takes another step backwards, fearful he might catch something. Well, you never knew these days, did you? Mind you, this bloke looks like a city type; probably one of them stockbrokers; more money than sense. Probably had a skin full, got into a fight and couldn't handle it. Frank spits – barely missing the prone man – bloody kids can't hold their beer nowadays.

'What's up Frank?' Kath appears at the door. 'Blimey – what the hell happened to him?' Kath pushes past her husband, brow wrinkled in concern.

Frank rolls his eyes. ''Ow would _I_ know, you daft bint? Just found 'im out 'ere. Reckon we should call the cops. 'E's gotta be a junkie, state of 'im.'

'I dunno about cops - I reckon we oughta ring for an ambulance. Look at him - he's been given a good goin' over - look at his poor face.'

She kneels down beside the unconscious man, wincing in sympathy as she takes in his injuries. She looks suspiciously at Frank.

'Frank - tell me _you_ didn't thump him one?' Frank can be a bit handy – but surely he wouldn't have...?

'Nah – course I didn't! Looked like 'e'd been through the wars before I even touched 'im! Thought he was goin' for me. Might've shoved him against the wall, like, but I never thumped him. He's a light-weight; I don't know me own strength, that's the trouble...' Frank is uncomfortable now, realising he might have been a bit hasty. But for all he knew, the bloke could've had a knife, couldn't he?

'Bloody 'ell, Frank, you could've killed the poor sod. He'll have a nasty headache when he wakes up. Be lucky if he doesn't report you for GBH!'

'It were only a little shove, like – couldn't 'ave done any real 'arm...' Frank is suddenly worried - this could lose him his license if the little twat reports him.

'Maybe we could just leave' im 'ere, not bother the cops...'

Kath snorts. 'Don't be stupid all your life, Frank.' She pulls off her apron and bundles it carefully underneath the man's head, partly as a pillow and partly to staunch the blood, which while it isn't gushing, is flowing quite freely from the wound on the back of his head. She carefully turns him onto his back, noting the swelling and bruising against the paleness of his face, the sorry state of what she can see is a good quality and well-fitted suit. He's young; well manicured with short, neat hair and hardly more than a day or two's stubble. He also looks somehow familiar but it's hard to be sure, his face is such a mess.

'Well he's not your normal junkie, that's for sure. That's a quality suit he's got there and he hasn't been on the streets more'n a day or two, I reckon.'

Kath wrestles with her conscience as she debates the right thing to do. He doesn't look like a real down-and-out; that's a sharp suit, so he probably has a job in the city. Maybe he's the sort to press charges if he remembers Frank's rough treatment when he wakes up.

Feeling uneasy, she quickly searches through his suit pockets, which are empty.

'I reckon he's been mugged, Frank – he's got no wallet, no car keys, not even a mobile – not a thing on him. I don't remember seeing him in the bar...' and she'd remember him, she's sure. They don't get very many city types in their pub.

She makes her decision, and stands up.

'Come on. We'd better get him upstairs, put him one of the empty rooms – when he comes round, we can say we found him like that, tell him he must've been mugged. If he thinks he remembers you shovin' him against a wall, we can say that must've been the mugger ... I mean, he's not gonna report you if we've done the decent thing and looked after him, is 'e? I could give Maggie a call - she'll give him the once over, make sure he doesn't need to go to hospital. C'mon - give us a hand.'

Frank sighs – there's no budging Kath when she's made up her mind. With a sigh, he grabs the young man under the armpits while Kath takes his feet and they carry him indoors. The man groans at the movement, but doesn't regain consciousness.

*

'He did _what_?' Maggie splutters down the phone as Kath relays the story to her friend, who has a St John's Ambulance certificate in First Aid.

'Well, he reckons he only gave him a little shove, but the poor bloke's got a nasty bump on the back of his head. I've cleaned it up as best I can and we've put him in one of the empty rooms; but he hasn't woken up and I thought mebbe you could just check him over... make sure he's okay. I mean, see if he needs to go to hospital...'

'Ok. I'll be round in a tic. You haven't given him anything to eat or drink, have you?'

'Well he's not woken up yet, so 'course I haven't!' Kath is indignant.

'Okay, okay. But if he does come round before I get there, don't give him anything, alright?'

'Alright...anything else I should do?'

'Yeah – put him in the recovery position – face down, head to the right, in case he vomits and chokes.'

'I think he's already done that – thrown up, I mean.'

'Okay. But still move him, in case he does it again. And keep an eye on him. I won't be long.'

Maggie frowns as she eyes the unconscious man lying face down on the bed. 'He's been badly beaten about, poor sod. I'd say he's been out there a while, too – could be hypothermic. His clothes are in a bit of a state, aren't they? Nice suit, though. I'm sure I know him from somewhere... is he a regular?'

'Nah – but I know what you mean. I've seen him before tonight... I keep thinking I've seen him on the telly, mebbe. Frank reckons he's been mugged, 'cos he's got nothing on him - no wallet, phone, or car keys.' Kath hovers anxiously as Maggie takes the man's pulse, angles the bedside lamp so that it shines onto his face. She peels back an eyelid.

'He might have a minor concussion – his pupil reactions are very sluggish ... and his pulse is very erratic. Help me turn him over. Carefully...'

Maggie pulls the suit jacket aside and pulls a face at the state of the man's suit. She makes to unbutton the shirt and gasps.

'What's wrong?'

Maggie dispenses with the buttons, instead quickly pulling the man's shirt out of his waistband. 'Bloody hell, I think he's been shot! There's dry blood all over this shirt and that looks like a bullet hole...'

'Oh my God... I never thought to check...' Kath has gone pale. 'Is he going to die?'

Maggie stops short. 'Oh - that's weird.' She traces a hand over the man's abdomen in puzzlement. There's a small scar on the lower left side amongst the fresh bruising, but no open wound. She runs her hands carefully over his chest, wondering if any ribs are broken.

'What?' Kath peers over Maggie's shoulder.

'Well – looks like he's been shot – but it must've been a while back. Look, it's all healed up...but why's he still wearing the same shirt, especially with a nice suit like that? He doesn't look exactly poor, does he...? ' She sits back, considering. 'He might have broken ribs – he ought to have an x-ray. '

She puts her ear to the man's chest and frowns. Moving her head a little to the left, she listens again. Then moves back to the right.

'Here, you have a listen. Either I'm cracking up or this bloke has got two hearts!'

Kath listens to first one side, then the other. 'That's impossible... isn't it?'

Maggie eyes her friend for a second, decides the question had been genuine. 'Well... I've heard of people with organs in the wrong place, sometimes even an extra one. But I've never heard of anyone with two _hearts_.' She blinks, and resumes her examination. Gently probing the head wound, she pronounces Kath's first aid measures adequate. 'But he'll probably need antibiotics. How long has he been unconscious?'

''Bout an hour, I s'pose. I called you as soon as I'd cleaned him up a bit.'

'How was he before Frank gave him a headache?'

'I dunno, I didn't see him; but Frank says he was stood out in the alleyway, up against the wall by the bins. He yelled blue murder when Frank turned the light on and Frank thought he was going for him – so he pushed him and that's when he banged his head. And he'd been sick. Frank thought he was a junkie.'

'Well, it's possible...' Maggie rolls both shirt sleeves up. 'There's no track marks – he's just as likely plain drunk. Though I can't smell any alcohol on him... But I think you're right about the mugging, though. He needs to go to hospital.' She considers putting him back in the recovery position but now she's worried about broken ribs. She might already have moved him too much.

'Frank's worried he'll get done for GBH.' Kath chews her lip shamefacedly.

'But Kath - what if he _dies_? Ring for an ambulance. It's better to be safe than sorry. He's no doubt got family somewhere who are worried sick!'

*

Movement, pain, noise... Why won't they leave him alone? He groans and tries to roll away from the light. He hurts all over, his head is splitting and his stomach lurches ominously.

'Easy there now. Just lie still.' A hand presses him back down. Something is placed over his nose and mouth, smothering him. He gasps and tries to push it away, eyes flying open in alarm. He seems to be in a moving vehicle, and realises that he's being forcibly held down with something approaching terror.

'Steady, sir – it's just oxygen, to help you breathe. Calm down.' The owner of the voice looms over him, a blur. He can't focus properly.

'Get – OFF!' He tries to pull the mask away, but strong hands pull his down again. He begins to panic, thrashing wildly.

'Sir, calm down! Or I'll have to sedate you, and I'd rather not do that at this stage.'

But he continues to struggle and his captor is joined by another. He feels the sharp sting of a hypodermic in his arm and the world fades around him.

*

Beep * Beep * Beep*

He winces, swallows. The light is too bright. Noise and bustle around him. What's happening? Where is he? Everything hurts.

'Sir, can you hear me? Can you tell me your name?'

_So many questions_. What have they to do with him?

'Sir? Can you open your eyes for me?'

_Oh, for Rassilon's sake, go away will you? _

'Sorry sir, I didn't quite catch that?'

Carefully he opens his eyes to see the concerned face of a young man wearing a white coat._ I'm not blind... _white hot pain floods his head and he quickly closes his eyes_. _He's so thirsty...

'Water...'

Morgenstern quickly pours out a small amount of water and holds the beaker to the patient's lips; he gulps every last drop before letting his head fall back onto the pillow with a wince of pain. Morgenstern places the beaker back on the table and takes the patient's wrist, noting the far too rapid pulse. The initial admission report noted the racing heart rate and worryingly high blood pressure. He's been given drugs to bring the readings down to acceptable levels but his pulse is still too fast for Morgenstern's liking.

'Just a little for now, until all your results are back. Now, is there anyone we can contact for you?'

'Where am I? Should I know you?' His voice is hoarse, as if he's been screaming. Perhaps he has. He opens his eyes again, warily.

'No, you wouldn't know me, sir... I'm Oliver Morgenstern, Junior Doctor. You're at the Royal Hope Hospital in London - you were brought into the Emergency Department a few hours ago by a gentleman who found you collapsed outside his pub. You've had a nasty knock on the head. Can you remember what happened?'

He remembers the cold and the dark... anger... fear... blow after blow to his body, jeering voices... curling up to protect himself... Then nothing ... wait...the darkness, feeling so cold... then rough hands pulling him upright, his head hitting the wall. And there was a woman... his fingers absently reach for a ring that's no longer there.

'Lucy...? '

The name comes unbidden to his lips. There's something about her... but he can't bring the thought into focus. His head swims sickeningly and he swallows as saliva floods his mouth. He thinks he might be sick.

'Who's Lucy, sir?' When he the only response he gets is a frown, Morgenstern tries again.

'Is Lucy your wife?'

_Wife..._ _Yes. That's it. Lucy. _There's something else... The memory slips away before he can grasp it. He nods and winces as pain stabs through his chest.

Morgenstern scribbles quickly on the notes, conscious that he has other patients waiting. Thanks to a virulent bug doing the rounds amongst staff and patients alike, they're massively understaffed tonight. He frowns, glances quickly up at the man as he writes. He's seen him somewhere before, hasn't he? It's hard to be certain; the face is so bruised and bloodied.

'Now we're getting somewhere. Can you tell us where we might contact her?' He looks up to see confusion on the man's face, which is grey with pain. Morgenstern frowns. Surely he's been given pain relief, hasn't he? He quickly scans the chart; it doesn't list any analgesics, and he makes a notation for the next drugs round. He'll see the sister on his way out, get that put right. Poor bastard – there's no need for him to be in that much pain.

'Sir? Where can we get in touch with Lucy – was she expecting you home tonight?'

'Lucy...? I don't ... know...' The pain in his chest is excruciating now and he can't think, can't make sense of what the man is asking him. His stomach rolls and he retches helplessly.

Morgenstern quickly thrusts a cardboard basin under the man's chin as his stomach rejects the water he's just gulped down. Morgenstern wipes the patient's face when he finally drops his head back onto the pillows, exhausted.

'Is there anyone else we can call?' Morgenstern quickly writes up the chart, one eye on the patient as he struggles to remember.

He tries to see past the relentless pain. Someone ... there _is _someone, but he can't... 'Doctor...?' His heart is pounding madly now and he gasps as pain suddenly rips through the right side of his chest, taking his breath away. The room goes black around him.

*Beep * Beep * Beeeeeeeeeep*

Morgenstern slams his hand on the alarm as the monitors squeal and show a flat line. He grabs the patient's wrist, feeling for a pulse. Nothing.

Quickly he whips the pillow from under the unconscious man's head and tilts it backwards to clear the airway. Where's that bloody crash team? He leans down, pinches the man's nose and leans in to begin manual resuscitation. He daren't risk putting any pressure on the rib cage until the patient has been x-rayed.

The man suddenly draws a huge, shuddering breath and grabs Morgenstern's wrists, wrenching his arms down painfully; he finds himself locking eyes with his patient – the whiskey-coloured eyes are wild. He looks terrified, Morgenstern thinks. He manages to tear his gaze away only when the man is distracted by the sound of the crash team arriving. As the curtain is swept aside by his colleagues, he pulls out of the surprisingly strong grip and staggers backwards, legs shaking with fright.

'What's going on? Oliver?'

Martha Jones is surprised to find her white–faced colleague backing away from the patient's bed, his expression one of shock. Morgenstern doesn't answer and Martha hurries to the patient's side. She looks down at he man gasping in pain with his hands clutched to his chest and stops, open-mouthed.

The features are battered, swollen and bloodied; but there's no mistaking that face.

'_Saxon?_ What on _earth_? '

Her words go unheard by the Master, who continues to shake and groan in pain.

The crash team who have followed her into the ward sweep past the stunned Martha, swarming around the bed and going about their job. Briskly efficient, they slap an oxygen mask on the Master's face, pulling his hands away from his chest and attaching monitors to his skin. Another holds down an arm while her colleague slaps the skin to bring up a vein, sliding in a needle and swiftly withdrawing a phial of blood. Another medic attempts to hold his head steady while his colleague lifts an eyelid into which he shines a small penlight. The Master moans and thrashes wildly and the senior medic barks an order for a mild sedative, 'quickly, before he hurts himself.' _Or one of us_, she thinks, as she calls for an orderly to hold the patients' arms down. Another nurse fetches restraining straps and manages to secure his legs to the bed. The sedative is quickly administered and the Master's struggles eventually subside as it takes effect.

Martha gulps and swallows. Throwing another disbelieving look at the bed and its stricken occupant she goes to the shaken Morgenstern and takes him aside.

'Oliver, are you okay? What _happened_?' She can't quite get her head round this. What the hell is the Master doing here? How could he even _be_ here? He's dead. Well, quite obviously he _isn't -_ but how is that even possible? It seems like a lifetime ago but it is in fact only two days since she saw the Master die. For one second she thinks – hopes - she's hallucinating. The voice of her colleague confirms that it's all too real.

Morgenstern draws a shaking hand over his face and swallows. 'I - he flat-lined, I thought he was having a heart attack - I was clearing his airway in case I had to do CPR before the team got here – and he just grabbed my hands...' the registrar shakes his head as words fail him.

Martha's pulse is hammering, remembering the Master's insane behaviour during that missing year. Her mouth is dry with fear and she swallows painfully. Morgenstern gabbles on, not noticing Martha's consternation.

'I really thought he was going to _kill_ me, you know? He just wouldn't let go and he looked... well, _terrified. _ If I'd known he was going to react like that... '

'What did you do to upset him?' Martha keeps one eye on the team as they bustle around the Master, finally able to do their job now he's quiet.

'Nothing - I'd just been trying to find out who he is, if there was anyone we could contact. He seems to be suffering from amnesia, although he remembers a wife called Lucy. But not his own name or where we can get hold of the wife.' He pauses. 'The weird thing is, I feel as if I should know who he is – but I can't place him.'

Martha feels a surge of hope – if the Master can't even remember his own name then perhaps he won't pose any danger to them. But his unprovoked attack on Morgenstern doesn't bode well. Martha watches the medics as they take blood pressure, fix up an IV and adjust oxygen levels and considers her options. She should ring the Doctor... or Jack. Or perhaps she should call in UNIT? Calling anyone of those people would take the problem out of her hands; Martha isn't at all sure that she can stomach dealing with this monster again.

Finally the crash team seem to be satisfied with the Master's condition and are finishing up. One of the nurses nods to Martha. 'He's stable for now – but he'll need regular monitoring.' She leaves with a frown.

'Right...thanks.' Belatedly Martha realises that she hasn't offered any help to her colleagues or shown any interest in the reason for the Master's collapse. No wonder the Nurse gave her a sharp look as she left the ward. She takes a deep breath and tries to compose herself.

Morgenstern looks at her quizzically, finally noticing her discomfort and recalling her reaction to the patient. 'Do you know him then? What did you call him?'

Martha smiles grimly. 'Oh yeah – I know him.' She doesn't elucidate and Morgenstern frowns.

'Well – who is he, then?'

Saxon.' It's something of an effort for Martha even to say the name. As if vocalising it makes the threat real. 'His name is Harold Saxon.' She can't bring herself to use his chosen name – and it wouldn't mean anything to Morgenstern anyway.

Realisation dawns in Morgenstern's eyes.

'Bloody hell, of course! Didn't he...?'

'Yeah, he did.' Martha is abrupt. She really doesn't want to talk about it. 'Who bought him in, then?'

Morgenstern finally seems to have recovered his composure.

'Um... a Pub landlord found him lying out by the bins when he went to put the rubbish out. Reckoned he'd been mugged. Just as well he did find him; it looks like he'd already been there for a while. His core temperature was way down when they brought him in... It's all in the notes. I'll go and warn ICU we may need a bed, just in case he crashes again.'

Morgenstern hurries away, leaving Martha alone at the Master's bedside. The Time Lord is quiet now that he's been sedated and his breathing is slow but slightly irregular.

The night-time sounds of the ward around them fade into the background as she wrestles with her desire to put as much space between herself and this monster; he almost destroyed her family, and as for his plans for the rest of humanity... she shivers.

If she hadn't been on call tonight she might never have known he'd survived. It's down to her again, by the look of it. She draws a deep, shaky breath. _I'd better_ _get on with it, then_. She has responsibilities and it won't look good on her record if she neglects a patient, regardless of his identity. How long before the news gets out?

Martha strides to the foot of the bed and grabs the medical chart. There's nothing in the 'Patient Name' box, or under 'Next Of Kin' (for one insane second Martha visualises 'The Doctor' listed there) and a note confirms what Morgenstern told her – the Master had been found injured in an alleyway outside a pub and admitted as the probable victim of a mugging. There's a note that he had no form of identification on him when found, not even a wallet.

She looks down at the unconscious Time Lord and tries hard to suppress a shudder of fear and revulsion. The Master looks dreadful – his face is a mass of bruises and the chart lists injuries consistent with being savagely beaten. Slow pupil dilation indicates concussion. There's also a terse note mentioning a healed bullet wound in the lower left abdomen.

Taking a deep breath, she places a hand on the Master's wrist, noting his far too rapid pulse and the irregular breathing which would seem to indicate bruised ribs at the very least. A tiny voice at the back of her mind whispers, _it's no more than he deserves. _Martha crushes it – that's not what she signed up for.

Morgenstern bustles back in.

'They don't have a bed at the moment but they've got a patient who's improving so we might be able to get him in there in a couple of hours if he doesn't pick up.'

'Have they done chest x-rays yet? There's no mention of it on the chart.'

Morgenstern shakes his head.

'No, not yet, Dr Jones. We were waiting for the porter to take him down. It's been busy tonight, as you know. And with that virus...' He looks at the Master and frowns. 'Shouldn't he be in the Private Wing? What about the Police... we should...'

'I'm on it, Oliver. We need to get those x-rays done as soon as possible, and then I'd like him moved to a side room. As for the rest – have security posted on the door, please. I need to make a phone call.'

She drops the Master's hand back onto the bed and strides out, resisting the urge to run.

*

Martha has been ringing the mobile phone she gave to the Doctor for fifteen minutes now but it just goes straight through to voicemail. She feels disappointment and no small amount of fear – she'd been so certain that the Doctor would pick up and come rushing back the minute he finds out that the Master is still alive. She hadn't even considered that she might not be able to make contact with him, and is momentarily undecided about what to do next. Something tells her that the Doctor wouldn't want her to call UNIT – he hasn't really said much about them to her but Martha gets the feeling that he doesn't rate them very highly – something to do with their propensity for weapons, she thinks. As for Torchwood... she'll call them if she can't raise the Doctor, she decides. Jack will know what to do.

Hurrying back to the ward, she overhears Morgenstern relating the tale of how he was attacked by Harold Saxon and realises it'll only be a matter of time before the Police are involved. They'll be woefully unable to deal with a recovered Master, Martha knows. It looks as if she'll have to call Jack sooner rather than later – but remembering his eagerness to permanently deal with the Master and the Doctor's insistence that the Master is _his_ problem to deal with and no-one else's, Martha still feels a definite reluctance to involve Torchwood until she's had a chance to speak to the Doctor. But if she can't reach him soon, what else can she do? There's no guarantee that the Master won't regain his memory; if he does they'll all be in danger. Without the Doctor she knows Torchwood is the best option for dealing with the Timelord. Sudden fear that he might have escaped while she's been trying to contact the Doctor seizes Martha, and she all but runs the rest of the way back to the ward.

Two yards from her goal she's collared by an elderly patient who has wandered out to the shop and become lost. For the first time in her career she is almost rude to a patient - but she bites back her frustration and guides the old dear back to the nearest ward reception and eventually manages to find out the woman's name and where she belongs.

Flustered, she arrives back on the ward and almost screams with fright when she sees that the Master's bed is empty. She grabs a young nurse doing drug rounds.

'Where's the patient from bed three?'

Her colleague points wordlessly to a side room at the end of the ward. Martha laughs it off. 'Thought I'd lost him! Thanks!'


	5. Chapter 5

Part Two of Chapter Three...

**The Master Chronicles - Book One.  
>Chapter Three – Discovery (part two)<strong>

The Master is still comatose. While she was busy trying to get hold of the Doctor he'd been taken down for x-rays, but there's no sign of the security she'd asked for and Martha sighs. She knows that if the Master chooses to escape there probably won't be a lot hospital security can do to stop him; but nor can she lock him in without having to explain more than she wants to her colleagues. Standing by the bedside, Martha tries to asses how much time they might have before he begins to pose a serious threat. She takes a deep breath to calm herself and tries to approach the Time Lord as if he were just another patient. Yeah, right.

Taking out her penlight, she lifts first one eyelid, then the other – his pupils are still slow to react, so he's definitely concussed, then. Putting the stethoscope into her ears, she pushes the hospital gown aside –her eyes widening as she takes in the livid bruising- and places the bell over the left side of his chest, listens to the pounding heartbeat. Its way too fast, and she makes a note to check his blood pressure. What's the normal BP for him, though?

Sliding the scope to the opposite side of his chest, Martha is surprised to hear nothing. She knows that Time Lords have two hearts – so where's the second heart-beat? She recalls the Doctor's near collapse in Shakespearian England when one heart failed him and guesses this must be what triggered the Master's collapse. She knows that it's unlikely he can survive for long with one heart out of action – presumably the drugs he's been given have stabilised his condition for now, but she really needs to speak to the Doctor. The thought of telling him that the Master has somehow survived shooting and immolation only to die whilst in her care is not one Martha wants to dwell on.

It's also worrying that the Master is still unconscious – definitely not a good sign in someone suffering from concussion. She knows the sedation was necessary to prevent him injuring himself or the medics trying to treat him, but he should only be in a light sleep, not flat out unconscious like this. What if he's suffered a reaction to drugs meant for humans? _Oh my god, they took blood samples... _She'll have to try and retrieve those bloods before his cover is blown. But for now she needs to concentrate on simply keeping him alive.

Reluctantly, she places a hand on the Master's shoulder. Much as she doesn't particularly want to look into those eyes again anytime soon, she knows that she has to do her best to keep him safe until the Doctor arrives. After that... well, she's not sure she wants to know what will happen to him. Taking a deep breath, she roughly shakes the Master's shoulder until his eyes finally flicker open.

'What...?' The Master's eyes meet hers and Martha is relieved to see confusion there but no recognition. Suddenly he seems so very... ordinary. She lets out a breath she hadn't realised she'd been holding.

'Mr. Saxon, do you know what happened?' She has to know for certain if he's regained his memory.

'Happened ...? What... happened?' His voice is hoarse and he coughs painfully.

Martha arranges the pillows behind him then fills a plastic cup with water from the bedside jug. She holds the cup so that he can sip as she holds it to his lips. Her heart hammers in her chest as he shakily puts one hand over hers, gulping greedily at the liquid. Eventually he pushes the cup away, having drunk his fill. His head falls back against the pillows and his eyes slide shut.

She quickly puts the cup down and places a hand on his shoulder again, noticing that his skin is very warm through the thin gown. He must be running a fever – the reading on the chart was several degrees lower than his skin feels now. What's the normal body temperature for a Time Lord? She recalls that the Doctor always seemed to have a body temperature several degrees higher than hers, so perhaps this is normal? Some instinct tells her it isn't.

'Sir, you need to try and stay awake. You're concussed, you really shouldn't sleep.' The respectful mode of address doesn't sit well with Martha but she needs to keep up the pretence that he is just another patient, at least for now.

His eyes open blearily, and he frowns. 'Why?' He rasps, his breath hitching in pain as he draws breath.

'There's a risk of coma, brain damage...' Martha falters. He really does look terrible. His face is a mass of bruises and looking at his hands and arms it's obvious that he had tried to shield himself.

'Are you in pain?' _He has to be,_ she thinks.

He nods, blinking. 'What do _you_ think?' he rasps, and there's a trace of the Master's venom there. Martha's heart jumps. She takes a deep breath.

'May I?' She indicates the gown, which has slipped from one shoulder, revealing a livid bruise.

Again he nods tiredly. Martha gently pulls the gown forward and down from both shoulders and draws a sharp breath as the extent of his injuries becomes clear.

The Master's chest is a mass of bruising and small contusions; the cuts would have been cleaned by A & E staff when he was brought in and are no longer bleeding but they look very sore. Is that the imprint of a boot she can see? It certainly looks like it. Moving further down his abdomen, she guesses that he was attacked by more than one person if the number of impact points is anything to go by. She notes one particularly nasty bruise at the bottom left-hand side of the ribcage.

'Tell me if this hurts,' she warns, and presses gently. The Master hisses in pain, his hands coming up protectively to throw hers aside.

'Sorry. It looks as if you might have some cracked ribs; we're waiting for the x-ray results to come up. Can you sit forward for me? I'd like to take a look at your back.'

The Master shakes his head. 'Leave me alone...' He swallows.

Martha suppresses a stab of pity, her nursing instincts taking over. He's been the stuff of her nightmares for so long that to see him helpless feels slightly surreal, but she can't ignore his pain.

'Mr Saxon, if I'm to help you I really need to check the extent of your injuries. Can you at least roll onto your side for me? I'll be as quick as I can.' She pushes at his left shoulder until, in defeat, he allows her to roll him partially onto his right side, grunting with pain as she does so. As she'd thought, his back is also a mass of livid bruising. He must be in tremendous pain. No wonder he just wants to sleep.

'Have you been given anything for the pain?' Easing him back down onto the mattress, Martha pulls the gown back up over his shoulders and picks up the chart.

'I have no idea,' he croaks.

Martha quickly reads down the rest of the chart. 'It's been written up... but not administered. I'll sort that out for you right away.' She notes that the drugs noted won't cause drowsiness, which is sensible in light of the concussion. They probably shouldn't have given the sedation earlier, Martha thinks, but it's academic now.

'Wait... '

Martha turns, cold fear trickling down her spine. She tries to compose her expression into one of professional interest.

'_What _did you call me?' He's staring at her, hard, as if trying to place her.

'Mr Saxon. That _is_ your name, isn't it? One of my colleagues recognised you...' No way is Martha going to call him anything else; what if it triggers his memory? She might already have said too much and crosses a finger behind her back.

The Master frowns, one hand kneading his temple. 'No.'

'Oh? What _is_ your name, then?' _I don't want to be having this conversation_... Martha begins to edge towards the door.

'I don't know... ' He sighs, and looks down in confusion, one hand playing absently with the ring finger of the other, although there's no ring. He frowns.

'Look, just rest for a moment. I'll get that pain relief for you and be right back.' It's pretty obvious that the Master isn't in any condition to go anywhere without help, Martha thinks, but knows the sooner she makes that call to Jack, the better. She glances back at the Master, who is now lying with his eyes shut, a frown still creasing his brow. She quietly closes the door behind her. And runs.

*

**Thames House, Whitehall**.

'Connie, would you red flash Adam for me?'

'Harry... what did your last slave die of? Oh – that's right – you scared them all to death...'

Harry Pearce rolls his eyes and goes back to studying the computer screen in front of him, his brow furrowed in concern. He looks up as Adam enters the room.

'How are you feeling, Adam?' He watches the younger man sit down, assessing him.

Adam shrugs. 'How am I supposed to feel, Harry? I'm coping.'

Harry regards him for a second or two longer, decides to take the statement at its face value. 'Good. Because this just came in. '

He swivels the computer screen around on the desk, so that Adam can see the text. The message is brief and to the point. It reads:

_COMMUNICATION FROM DIRECTOR GENERALS OFFICE _

_24-03-2008 07:30:05_

_FAO: MI5- Harry Pearce [Head of Section D]_

_CLASSIFICATION – TOP SECRET _

_CAVEAT – EYES ALPHA_

_PRIORITY – URGENT _

_Subject: Murder of British Cabinet Members and President Elect Winters_

_An IC1 male matching the description of Prime Minister Harold Saxon is presently a patient at Royal Hope Hospital, London. D notice has been issued but threat to be isolated, contained and neutralised. [We need to contain this news for obvious reasons.]_

Adam is intrigued. 'Who found him?

Harry smiles briefly. 'If reports are to be believed, he was found unconscious in the back yard by a publican who was putting out the rubbish. His wife wisely called an ambulance. It seems he attacked a Junior Doctor, and one of the staff called the police. Of course, if this gets out...'

'We'll have our transatlantic friends baying for blood.'

'Exactly.'

'Do they know about this yet?'

'I haven't heard anything, but I'm sure it won't be long before I do.'

'Do we have any idea where the wife is? '

'No – she simply dropped off the radar. Its assumed he murdered her as well but no body has been found, so that will be something else we'll need to ask him about.'

'You want me to bring him in.' Adam sighs. Never impressed by politicians at the best of times, he doesn't relish the idea of babysitting this particular Minister one little bit.

'Oh, I think so, don't you?'

*

**Torchwood HQ, Cardiff.**

'Tosh!' Jack barrels out of his office. Toshiko looks up, startled. She has barely settled behind her desk and booted up her computer. Jack is obviously having a bad day – already.

'Yes, Jack?'

'How long ago did this alert come in?' He stabs her keyboard, calling up a hidden window. 'It just appeared on my screen. When did it come in?'

Toshiko peers at the message, frowns. 'Um... I don't know, Jack. To be honest, I hadn't even seen it yet. It's ... oh, it's a D notice!'

'Jeez... I should have been told about this the second it came in!' He storms past her, yelling for Owen. Tosh watches him go, astonishment written all over her face.

_But I only just got here, Jack! _

She sighs._ Looks like its going to be loo-oong day._

*

Martha dials Jack's number, wishing now that she had alerted him sooner.

'Martha! How're you doing?' Jack sounds the same as ever, but there's an underlying tension in his voice which makes Martha feel uncomfortable.

'I'm ... good, Jack...you?' Perhaps she's imagining it.

'Not so bad, thanks. Your family...how are they?'

'They're doing okay, thanks, Jack...' She pauses and wonders how she's going to break the news.

'I'm glad to hear that, Martha. Give 'em my love, won't you?'

''Course I will. Um, Jack - You're not going to like this...'

*

Martha flips her mobile shut with fingers that are shaking. She'd been right; Jack hadn't liked what she'd had to tell him one little bit - he liked even less that he'd had to find out about it first from an intercepted MI5 D Notice. To discover from Martha that the Police are probably also about to be involved is the icing on the cake.

'Jesus, Martha – why the hell didn't you call me straight away?' Jacks' tone had been hurt.

_Because if you kill him, the Doctor will never forgive you, _she'd thought, but couldn't say.

*

'He did _WHAT_?' Harry shouts into the phone.

Ignoring the glares he gets from hospital staff as he speaks into his mobile, Adam winces and moves the phone away from his ear.

'He snapped a medic's neck; now he's disappeared.'

'Hells Bell's! Well you'd better find him, Adam, and quickly, before the Police get their hands on him!'

*

**UNIT Central Command, Tower Bridge, London**

'Captain Magambo?' The young officer is hesitant, knowing that he's the bearer of bad news.

'What is it, Johnson?'

'Lieutenant Dobbs requests your presence in the Monitoring Room, Captain. He says there's something you need to see.'

Magambo sighs. 'I suppose if it gets me away from this paperwork I should be grateful. What is it, Dobbs?' Magambo rises and makes for the door, Dobbs following.

'It's Harold Saxon, Captain – the Master. He's back.'

Had Dobbs been prone to blushing, his face might well have looked luminous in the face of Magambo's response to this news.

*

The Master walks carefully through the corridors, following the exit signs and trying to stroll as casually as possible; not easy when every breath, every step, is agony. He'll have to find somewhere to hole up until... until what? Until he's recovered, he supposes. He feels so _weak_, and his head hurts abominably. He should have taken the pain relief, but who knows what they've already pumped into his bloodstream. Why he should worry about this when to all intents and purposes these people are trying to help him, he isn't sure. All he's aware of is a bone-deep conviction that he's not safe here, that he needs to escape. He isn't even sure who -or what- he's running from; he just knows that he has to get away.

After the female Doctor had left to get the pain relief, he'd been unable to relax. It had nothing to do with the pain, although that had been distracting enough. There had been something familiar about her but he couldn't put his finger on it. There had been a look in her eye, awareness – she knows something about him that he doesn't know himself and suddenly he'd sensed danger.

He'd managed to disconnect the IV line and after a brief and painful search of the cupboards had found what he assumed to be his clothes, since they seemed to fit. They were crumpled and filthy and smelled appalling - but would have to do for now. He had just finished the painful task of dressing when a young man entered the room, carrying a hypodermic in a tray.

'Sir! You shouldn't - you need to get back into bed! Here, let me –' the medic had taken his arm and tried to lead him back to the bed.

In panic the Master had lashed out, grasping the man around the neck and twisting until a sharp crack indicated that the spinal cord had snapped. The human had crumpled to the floor without a sound and the Master had almost joined him as his ribs protested at the violent movement. Gritting his teeth against the pain, he had relieved the dead man of his white hospital coat, putting it on over his own stained clothes. It might serve to hide the worst of the damage to his suit, at least for long enough to get him out of the building without more staff trying to help him. He could do nothing about his ravaged face, however – he would just have to brazen it out.

He makes his way out of the ward and along the corridors, following the exit signs and thinking furiously as he goes. His memory is patchy. He can remember a blond woman in a red dress... Lucy? She's asking him something about a ring... and someone he wants to call the Doctor but whose face he can't recall ... the memories are hopelessly scrambled. He can't remember in which order they come, or what had happened to either of those people. The hospital staff seem to think that Lucy is his wife, and that feels right. He has to find out what's happened to her... he feels as if he should know, but the memory won't come.

He stumbles as dizziness and nausea overcome him and senses that people waiting in the lobby are starting to notice him as he leans against the wall, trying to control the urge to throw up again. He has to get out of here before the dead man is found. With an effort he pushes himself away from the wall and almost falls as his legs suddenly give way.

'Its okay mate, I've got you. Here - sit down for a minute.' Firm hands catch him and steer him to the nearest seat. His head is pushed between his knees. The pain in his ribs is excruciating and he gasps weakly but he's powerless to resist as his head continues to spin sickeningly. His vision begins to grey out and he knows someone is speaking to him but he's unable to make out the words above the roaring in his ears.

Adam is surprised by Saxon's battered appearance – the man looks like death warmed up, surely not much of a threat to anyone in his present state. How he's managed to break the SHO's neck and get this far in his condition is anyone's guess. The element of surprise, probably.

'Just take some deep breaths. You'll be okay.' As he speaks, Adam leans in close, adding sotto voice:

'And if you want to remain that way, Saxon, you'll do exactly as I say. In a moment we're going to make our way through those doors like long lost mates. You give me any trouble and you'll be going out the same way you came in – on a stretcher. Got it?'

Saxon stiffens but doesn't respond for a long moment. When he does, it's with a mixture of quiet fear and exasperation as he carefully sits upright.

'That bloody name again – I'll tell you, as I told the others – my name _isn't_ Saxon. So you can bugger off now.' He glares furiously at Adam.

'Come off it, Saxon – that amnesia trick might work with the medical staff but it doesn't cut it with me. Now – get up, start walking and remember what I said.' Adam stands, tugging on Saxon's arm.

'Come on, let's get you home.' Adam speaks loudly for the benefit of the few remaining onlookers.

The Master realises that he has little choice but to follow; he doesn't have the strength to resist in any meaningful way and has little hope of getting away from this determined thug in his present condition.

'Who the hell _are_ you?' he mutters, gritting his teeth against a fresh onslaught of pain and nausea.

'MI5. That's all you need to know for now.' Adam keeps a tight grip on Saxon's arm, draping the other around his shoulder in a display of friendly concern.

The Master searches his memory – MI5... it rings a bell but he can't think properly and the knowledge stubbornly refuses to reveal itself to his conscious mind.

As they pass through the automatic doors a phalanx of uniformed police pushes past them, radios blaring garbled speech and bursts of static. Adam catches the look of alarm on Saxon's face as the man quickly turns his face away.

'Where ... are you... taking me?' Saxon asks as he stops, leans against the wall of the building and puts a shaking hand up to his forehead. Underneath the bruising Adam can see that the man's face is deathly pale. He barely manages to catch Saxon as his eyes roll back and his legs give way.

That's all he needs, Adam thinks ruefully as he puts one arm around Saxon's waist and drapes the other over his shoulder. Fortunately no-one seems to be paying any attention to them now and he half-walks half-carries the semi-conscious man towards the car he'd parked nearby in direct contravention of the parking regulations.

Having deposited a now completely unconscious Saxon into the back seat, Adam flips his mobile open as he moves around the car and takes the drivers seat.

'Connie – can you tell Harry that I've got the target, but he's in a pretty bad way. I think we ought to get the medic to take a look at him. I'll be there in ten minutes.'

Within the close confines of the vehicle, the stink of blood and vomit on Saxon's clothes is all-pervasive and Adam pulls a face, winds down his window.

'Christ, Saxon – was it really worth it?'

He doesn't get an answer but then he doesn't really expect one.

*


	6. Chapter 6 - Captive

**_Author's note: _  
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**__**_I want to apologise for the extremely long delay in updating this story. It is in fact complete and has been for some considerable time but it's been a busy old year/eighteen months and I just haven't managed to get back here to update - sorry! However, I'll now make a pledge to get the rest of it posted before Christmas 2012 so please feel free to PM me and castigate me if I slacken off at all... _

_A note about rating: I've changed the rating from K+ to M and would ideally have preferred to rate it MA, since the odd scene is quite adult in both tone, content and language - but the rating tabs don't seem to extend to that in the editing suite so I'm not sure why there is even an MA rating if we can't use it... unless I need to tweak something else to allow that to be active? If anyone knows, I'd be grateful for your advice! _

_However __if, after reading it, you think I do need to tone it down, PLEASE PM me and I will do so immediately. I don't want to offend anyone but the aim in writing this story was to be as truthful and realistic about the nature of the Master's character as it seemed to me to be; hence some of the more violent and sexual scenes, which might be rather stronger than is generally posted on this site. I really don't want the story taken down or banned or whatever, so I am quite willing to compromise and tone it down, but it is hard to know quite how far I can go before that is a risk. Let me be clear; I don't write to shock, but I do want to be honest in my writing. I've never had any complaints but I do want to consider my readers of course, so please speak up if anything in the story really upsets/offends you - I would rather know than not! _

_Okay, so on with the story - for those of you who have asked, it is not primarily a 'slash fic', although there are oblique references hinting that there may be more to the Master's relationship to the Doctor than is at first evident. It is, first and foremost, a story about the results of the Master's behaviour in 'Utopia/The Sound of Drums/Last of the Time Lords' and what might have happened next... written long before 'The End of Time' aired, you may find a few parallels along the way which I have to say pleased me no end when TEOT aired! If I was vain I'd say 'great minds think alike', but I hope I'm not so... I just think the character of the Master -and the Doctor- meant that certain outcomes were more likely, and both Russell T Davies and I saw that... _

_Enough from me! Upwards and onwards... oh, and please do take the time to review if you can - it's always good to know what people think and can only help with future work!_

**'The Master Chronicles - Book One'**

**Chapter Six: Captive'**

'So - d'you want to tell me why we're dropping everything for this Saxon bloke?' Owen scowls tiredly as the SUV approaches the Royal Hope Hospital. Jack doesn't reply and Owen sighs. 'I mean, he's not exactly an _alien_, is he? He's the bloody Prime Minister for fuck's sake. He might be a murderer, but –'

'Owen, this might come as a bit of a shock but actually, yeah - he's an alien.' Jack's tone is flat and he doesn't look at Owen,instead keeping his gaze firmly on the road ahead. He'd hoped that he would never need to have this conversation, but it seems unavoidable now.

'Oh, come _on_, Jack - you're bloody kidding me!' _Christ, that's all we need_.

'Wish I was, Owen. Believe me, he's a nasty piece of work. I've still got the scars.'

Owen shakes his head as they swing into the hospital grounds. Police cars are parked in front of the Hospital entrance, lights flashing. They pull up behind the police vehicles and make their way to the door. Jack flashes his Torchwood ID at a uniformed policeman who is accompanying an orderly pushing a covered guerney out of the hospital.

'Hold it... Torchwood...' Jack addresses the policeman, blocking his exit. 'What happened here?'

'Some bastard just broke this poor sod's neck.' _Now get out my way! _His body language says.

Jack's heart sinks. 'Did they get the culprit?' He has a pretty good idea who is responsible...

'No, mate. He's long since scarpered. Now if you don't mind...'

Jack waves him through and strides up to the desk.

'Torchwood. Need to see the crime scene, please.'

Yellow crime scene tape is stretched across the doorway but the bored-looking Constable standing guard bows immediately to the Torchwood ID and the force of Jack's personality. Striding into the room, Jack cuts through the senior Detective's 'You can't come in here!' bluster.

'Cap'n Jack Harkness, Special Ops, Torchwood. What's the story?'

The Detective doesn't seem too impressed by Jack's credentials but knows the chain of command well enough. He looks to be close to retirement, hopefully won't want the hassle.

'DCI Skelton. We got a call from...' he consults his notes – 'an Oliver Morgenstern. The suspect had attacked him earlier this morning...'

'Got any idea who he is?' _Here it comes_.

Skelton moves gum from one side of his mouth to the other, eyes Jack warily.

'He says the suspect goes by the name of Saxon. As in –'

'Yeah, I know who he is, thanks. Got any CCTV footage?' Jack's tone is curt.

Skelton bristles. 'My boys are onto it. Look, what's Torchwood's interest in this case?'

'Can't say, sorry. But we'll need that footage. Thanks for your help.' Jack turns on his heel and is gone before Skelton can open his mouth.

'Bloody Torchwood!' He mutters at Jack's retreating figure.

Jack's expression is grim as he pulls the disc from the machine. He'd gained some small satisfaction from marching in and swiping the CCTV footage just as hospital security was about to hand it over the copper from the Met, but if he's being honest with himself, he's still smarting from Martha's call. He'd thought that she trusted him more than this. She hadn't explained her reluctance to call him straight away but he guesses the reason and it hurts him more than it should to know that the Doctor must have shared his concerns with Martha but not with himself.

'That's him all right. How the hell did he survive?' It's clear that Jack is talking more to himself than Owen, and Owen rolls his eyes.

'Look, Jack, what's all this about? Is Saxon really an alien? He looks perfectly normal to me. Well, if you can call murdering the US President and the whole of the bloody cabinet 'normal.' They never found the bodies, did they? So what the hell is he, then?'

Jack shakes his head. 'Not here. Let's find some place to grab breakfast and a coffee and I'll tell you all you need to know about him. It's not a pretty story.'

Owen trails after Jack. 'Well that's okay then – if there's one thing I don't expect from this job, its pretty stories.' But Jack isn't listening; he's already talking to Tosh and is focused on that conversation.

'Tosh – I need you to hook into the CCTV cameras in the vicinity of the Royal Hope Hospital. If you log onto the link I'll give you, that's the guy you're looking for, name of 'Harold Saxon'. Let me know the minute you find him; hopefully he can't have gone too far. The records say he wasn't in great shape.'

Jack gives Tosh the link, and signs off.

'_The_ Harold Saxon?' Back at the Hub, Toshiko calls up the link and blinks in surprise. She wasn't really expecting to see the ex-Prime Minister's image on the grainy footage, even though there can surely be only one Harold Saxon. And it _is_ him, isn't it? The features are battered and bruised, but there's no mistaking that face. Why is Jack interested in _him_? And anyway, isn't he supposed to be dead?

'How's Saxon, Adam? Connie tells me that you asked for the medic to check him over before we question him.'

Adam nods.

'He's in quite a bad way, Harry - collapsed twice on me so far. Has the medic been called?'

'Connie is on to it. But I don't want to wait, Adam – we need to get going on this before our friends start giving us grief.'

Adam frowns. 'I'm not sure just how useful he'll be at the moment.'

'Then let's go and find out, shall we?'

'So tell me about him.' Owen gulps at his coffee – relishing the caffeine hit as the long night begins to catch up with him.

Jack relates an edited version of the Master's back story, glossing over the catalogue of atrocities that took place during the year the Master had control of the Earth. There's little point bringing it up, since it didn't actually happen for most people. It's is a time he wishes had never happened for him, either.

'So he's not really Harold Saxon at all? Bloody hell - he had _me_ fooled.' Owen shakes his head. ''_Master_' – what sort of name is _that_? Sounds like something out of a porn film. How do you know him?' Owen passes up the chance of a dig at Jack's unashamed sexuality – this is just too mind-boggling.

Jack twitches his eyebrows but there's little humour in his voice. 'You don't want to know, Owen, trust me. He's Harold Saxon alright, as much as anyone is. But it's a fake ID, a cover. He had almost everyone fooled, thanks to his Archangel Network. If he'd succeeded... well, let's just say you really _don't_want to know exactly what he's capable of.'

'OK, so he's trouble. Assuming we find him, this ... 'Master', what are we going to _do _with him?'

Jack grimaces. 'I haven't decided yet. But he's got to be contained somehow.'

'So what do you need _me _for, exactly?' Owen has a sinking feeling that he might not like the answer.

Jack almost - but not quite- sighs. 'Well, according to Martha he has amnesia - he's been beaten up pretty badly... Oh, and did I mention that he's a Sociopath ..with a penchant for rape and torture? '

'Great. I get all the good jobs.'

The Master sits silent and sullen in the empty room. He'd regained consciousness to find himself lying on the bare floor of what is clearly a prison cell. He hasn't been restrained but notes the camera concealed in the ceiling and knows that he's being watched. His last clear memory is of standing outside the hospital after narrowly avoiding the police - presumably his victim had been found rather more quickly than he could have hoped. He has vague memories of a car journey, but doesn't recall arriving at wherever here is; an MI5 interrogation cell, he surmises. How much time has passed, he can't tell.

What_ is _it with this name 'Saxon'? Try as he might, he can't connect the name to himself at all. He still feels light-headed and weak and his body is a mass of painful bruises. He can feel the onset of a fever and every breath he draws hurts – he vaguely recalls mention of cracked ribs. Only the pounding in his head has changed, having subsided to a dull ache, but he's almost unbearably thirsty. A bottle of water sits on the table in front of him. He breaks the seal and tastes it; detecting nothing harmful, he drinks it greedily.

The door suddenly slides open and two people enter; the thug he'd met at the hospital and an older man who exudes a quiet air of authority and who is clearly in charge. Silently, they seat themselves across the table from him, and wait. Apparently he's expected to make the first move. He stares back at them balefully, refusing to play their stupid games.

The older of the two men clears his throat. 'Mr Saxon. Let's start with something simple. I assume you know why you're here?'

_That name again! _He draws a breath and winces.

'No - I have absolutely _no _idea why you're holding me prisoner. Are you going to tell me, or do I have to try and guess?' He returns their stares, not giving an inch.

The younger man speaks. 'OK. Let's try another one. Who are you working for?'

The Master frowns, puzzled by the turn of questioning. 'I - don't work for anyone.' How he knows this he's not sure, but it feels right. What has this got to do with the man he killed at the hospital?

'Oh, come off it, Saxon. You surely don't expect us to believe you?' The older of the two men leaves his seat and walks behind the Master.

'Believe it or not, as you wish. It's the truth.' He refuses to show any fear, even though his pulse is suddenly racing. He suppresses a shiver. The fever...

'Oh yes, because you're big on the truth, aren't you, Saxon?'

The man leans in close, crowding him, and the Master flinches, sweat beading on his brow. Anger curls in his chest and he winces as his headache kicks up a notch.

'I don't know what you're talking about! My name_ isn't _Saxon...' His head begins to pound ferociously and he falls silent, shivering visibly now as the fever starts to take hold.

'I don't think Mr Saxon is really up to this...' the younger man looks pointedly at his superior, who snorts.

'Oh, he's _up to it _all right – you're up to your neck in trouble, aren't you, Saxon?' The older man leans forward, placing a hand heavily on each of the Masters' shoulders. He leans forward, letting his weight bear down. The Master winces as his ribs protest and a small grunt of pain escapes his lips.

_Steady on, Harry! _Adam respects Harry's interrogation skills but isn't sure that this is going to get them anywhere. If Saxon collapses again they'll be no further forward.

'Do you really expect us to believe that you murdered the entire cabinet and the American President entirely unassisted? Because I have to tell you that quite frankly it just does not wash.'

The Master frowns. 'I don't remember...any of this. Do you have proof?' His head is beginning to swim again and he swallows. _If only I had my screwdriver... _ the thought comes unbidden, and he blinks and frowns. What does _that _mean? An image flits in his mind's eye but is gone before he can examine it.

'Come on Harry – give us something to work with, here.' The younger man looks faintly uncomfortable although his gaze is rock steady.

'I _told _you –' The Master visibly flinches as the older man leans in again and hisses in his ear, insistent.

'What about Lucy? What about your wife? What did you do with _her_? Did you murder her too? How did you do it?'

'I don't know what you're talking about!' The Master shuts his eyes against a sudden vicious pounding in his head. _Da-Da-Da-Dum, Da-Da-Da-Dum..._why is that familiar; where has he heard it before?

'Mr Saxon, you must think we're incredibly stupid. Who were you working for? Where is your wife? How did you dispose of the Ministers you murdered? _Answer me_!'

'I-don't-know!' His hands fly to his head as he bends over the table, gritting his teeth against sudden unbearable pain. His stomach rolls. 'I can't...think...' his head is spinning and he sways, his balance gone.

'Harry – I think -' Adam leaps to his feet. For all his 'Good Cop' role-play he recognizes that Saxon really is in trouble as he retches violently, spewing up the water he'd recently drunk as he topples from the chair and onto the floor.

'Hells Bells!' Harry steps smartly away.

Adam quickly kneels by Saxon's side, putting a steadying hand on his shoulder as the man coughs and retches. 'Easy...' He looks up at Harry. 'We're not going to get anything out of him in this state, Harry. We need that Doctor,_ now_.'

Saxon's head comes up. 'Doctor...?' He rasps, touching his lips with shaking fingers. He feels as if he should know that name. _Why_?

Adam throws Harry a worried look. Fishing a tissue from the pocket of his jeans, he offers it to Saxon, who takes it gratefully, wiping his mouth with unsteady movements.

'We've got a Doctor on the way, Mr Saxon.' He helps the man to his feet and back into the chair; Saxon is deathly pale, sweating and shivering. Only when he's sure that he isn't about to collapse again does Adam join Harry at the door.

The older man turns back and addresses the prisoner.

'We'll be back, Saxon – as soon as the Doctor has certified you fit for questioning. You might want to re-consider your answers in the meantime.'

The locks shunt into place none too quietly and the Master rests his arms on the table, dropping his head onto them with a groan.

'Jack? I've got a result. Sending it over now...'

Jack flips open his wristband, peers at the tiny image. 'Yeah, that's him. Looks like the hospital car park. How long ago was this?'

'About an hour and a half. I don't have an ID for the man with Saxon yet, but you won't like this...' her voice tails off, uncertain.

'Just tell me, Tosh...'

'The car they drove away in is registered to a holding company which serves as a front for the Security Services - MI5.'

'Shit! – that'd be Thames House?'

'Yes, Jack, in Whitehall. Section D has him.'

'Gotcha. Good work, Tosh.' Jack cuts the link, swears.

Owen frowns. 'So why are MI5 interested in him?'

'I imagine they think he's working for someone else, and they want to know who. As far as they're concerned, he's public enemy number one. The Americans must be pretty pissed at him, too.'

'Not got a lot going for him, then, has he?' Owen grimaces. 'So you reckon they'll just hand him over to us if we ask nicely?'

'We might have to do a little ... persuading...' Jack touches his earpiece again.

'Tosh? I need you to get me into Thames House... any ideas?'

'I'll get onto it, Jack.'

He turns to Owen. 'One other thing – as far as MI5 are concerned, he's Harold Saxon, ex-Prime Minister. Let's not freak them out by mentioning the Master, okay?'

Harry and Adam watch Saxon on the monitor. He's no longer seated at the table but is kneeling on the floor. He'd thrown up again and seems to be in real distress now, rocking back and forth with his hands clutched tightly to either side of his head.

'If that's an act, it's a damn good one.' Harry sighs. 'I don't know what information we can get if he really doesn't remember anything, Adam. Damned if I know who he could be working with – there's absolutely nothing in his background to suggest terrorist links. Not so much as a sniff. '

Harry has reviewed Saxon's file and feels very uneasy – the man's background is almost too good to be true. In his experience that usually means trouble.

'I reckon that' - Adam's nod indicates the monitor - 'is genuine, for what it's worth. He's probably concussed, so it's hardly surprising.' _Damn it, where's that medic?_

Connie bustles along the corridor towards them, accompanied by a young man wearing a white coat and carrying a black case. He has an air of noncholant insolence, and Adam can feel Harry bristle before they've even been introduced.

'The usual Staff Doctor is sick. They've sent a...' she consults her notes, '... Doctor Harper.'

Harry rolls his eyes. 'Very well, I suppose he'll have to do.' He turns searching eyes on Owen. 'I take it that he has the proper clearances?'

Connie shoots him a withering look. 'No, of course he hasn't, Harry.' She leaves them to it.

Adam gives a wry grin. 'I think you upset her, Harry.'

Harry shrugs. 'I'm always doing that. She'd miss it if I didn't.'

Owen watches the exchange in bemusement. He smiles thinly at the two men.

'So, where's the patient then?'

Owens' calm deserts him as he is led into the...well, 'interview room' hardly describes it. It's a vast empty space with rectangular -and none-too-clean-light panels set high up on the walls at regular intervals and is bare except for a table and two chairs. The floor is cold concrete and even though the lighting is barely adequate he can see dubious stains on its damp surface and can't help but flinch as the door slides shut behind them.

'You're keeping a sick man in _here_?' he mutters angrily, forgetting for a moment that this particular patient has supposedly committed mass murder.

Saxon is kneeling on the floor of the cell, clutching his head and rocking back and forth in obvious pain, his breath hissing as he takes fast, shallow breaths.

_He'll be hyperventilating if he keeps that up. _Owen drops to his knees beside the Time Lord. Snapping open his case, he pulls out a penlight. He looks back up at the two men, who have followed him into the cell.

'What's his name?' He'd almost forgotten to ask..._ come on Owen, get your act together!_

'Harry.'

_Ok, so I'm not meant to know who he is... As if I wouldn't know the bloody Prime Minister, for fuck's sake! _Although right now Saxon bears little resemblance to the smart public figure that Owen remembers. He puts a hand on Saxon's shoulder and feels heat radiating through the lightweight suit; he's running a fever, which isn't good.

'Harry? Can you hear me? I'm a Doctor. I've come to help.'

The shoulder beneath him tenses, shudders.

'_Doctor_..?' Saxon slowly turns bloodshot eyes in Owen's direction. His face is bruised and swollen and the skin is an unhealthy grey colour beneath the bruising. A thin sheen of sweat indicates that in addition to the fever, he's probably in quite a lot of pain. Hardly surprising, Owen thinks.

'That's right. Dr Owen Harper. Will you let me examine you, Sir? I'm here to help.'

Saxon groans, as if disappointed with Owen's' answer.

'No...' He seems to curl in on himself further, and Owen looks up at the two men.

'How long has he been like this?' His anger simmers as he takes in the stained clothing and the odour of stale vomit. The interrogation room lacks even the most basic amenities. How long had these goons kept him here? For the moment he forgets Saxon's origins; all he sees is a sick man being denied treatment in accordance with basic human rights. That Saxon apparently isn't human is neither here nor there.

The two men exchange glances; the older gives a curt nod to the younger man who answers.

'Not that long – an hour, if that. He was fine until we started asking questions. Then he complained of a headache, threw up and collapsed.' Adam doesn't mention Saxon's previous collapse at the hospital, knowing that it won't go down well with Harper.

Owen snorts. 'Yeah, I bet. Since when does 'asking questions' involve beating people around the head?'

'I can assure you,' The older man asserts, 'that we've done no such thing.' _He isn't even trying to defend their negligence... Jesus._

Owen gently probes the swelling on the back of Saxon's head and the ex-Prime Minister draws in a sharp breath as Owen parts the hair to reveal a sizeable lump, matted with dried blood.

'That's a nasty wound you've got there, Harry. How did that happen?' Saxon doesn't answer and Owen shoots a glance of disgust at the two MI5 Agents.

'We're _not _responsible for his injuries.' The younger man speaks firmly.

'Well that's as maybe, but he should have been examined _before _you started bloody interrogating him! He's not fit for interview; he should be in a hospital bed. Ever heard of the Human Rights act?' Owen turns back to Saxon.

'Harry, can you hear me? I need you to open your eyes. Can you do that for me?'

There's no reply but Saxon's eyes flutter open. Owen quickly shines the light into first one, then the other, before turning furiously back to the two men.

'Like I said, this man should be in hospital - he's badly concussed! Left untreated he could end up with brain damage, but then I'm sure you already know that. Want that on your conscience, do you?'

Owen's fury is genuine - although it's not quite as serious as he's implying to the spooks, Saxon _is _concussed, that much is obvious. The bruises on his face re fresh, and Owen is sure the suit hides more.

The older man speaks. 'Of course not, Doctor Harper. But this _is _a matter of national security. You can treat him here –'

'No, I bloody well can't! Are you _mad_? Not only is he concussed, he's running a fever and going into shock - he needs proper medication and monitoring. God knows what other injuries your thugs have given him. I'm taking him out of here - unless you want a cell death on your hands?'

'Now listen here...'

'No, you just listen to _me_... Mister MI bloody Five... this man needs to be hospitalised. I don't care _who_ you think you are; I'm a Doctor and believe me, I _will _report you if you don't let me do my bloody job. What you do with him once he's fit is none of my business. But you called me in and while he's under my care...'

The older man appears to re-consider.

'Very well. But my colleague here will accompany you. Saxon is a major security risk and we can't afford to let him out of our sight, do you understand me?' He turns to Adam. 'Keep in touch, Adam.' He leaves the room, his fury obvious.

Owen breathes an inward sigh of relief but outwardly shows only reluctant acceptance.

'OK. Just don't get in my way.' He pulls his mobile from his pocket. Adam starts forward.

'Oh, for fucks'...look, I'm calling my colleague to bring a in stretcher, all right? Unless you want to carry him out yourself..?'

The man puts his hands up, palms outward, in surrender, and takes a step backwards. 'Go ahead.'

'Jack – we need to bring this one in. Can you bring a stretcher round? Quick as you can.' He turns to Saxon.

'Harry – I'm afraid we need to hospitalise you. It looks as if you're badly concussed so we need to keep an eye on you for a few hours, probably overnight. I'm going to give you something for the pain now but I want you to stay awake for me, okay?'

Owen delves into his bag, brings out a syringe and ampoule, quickly primes and injects it into Saxon's hand. The man barely flinches, he is so wrapped up in his pain. Within a few seconds, he stops rocking, sighing deeply as he collapses against Owen.

'Harry! Stay with me...' Owen lowers him to the floor, quickly takes Saxon's pulse and pulls up an eyelid. 'Bloody hell, just what I didn't want...' He turns to his medical kit as Connie returns, Jack in tow wheeling a medical gurney.

'What happened to _him_?' Jack is startled by the Master's appearance but masks it well.

'Somebody's done a real number on him. He just collapsed on me – concussion at the very least, possibly broken ribs. I'm worried that he's sliding into a coma.'

As he speaks, Owen places an oxygen mask over Saxon's face, continuing to treat Jack as a fellow paramedic.

'Possibly inter-cranial bleeding...' He glares at Adam, 'which would explain why he had a ruddy headache!' He's gratified to see a flush of shame cross the man's face. 'We need to get him into theatre fast to relieve the swelling.'

Jack and Owen lift Saxon onto the gurney, placing him in the recovery position. It might not do much for any broken ribs but Owen judges the threat of his patient throwing up again as more immediate. As Adam follows them through the pod doors, Jack raises an eyebrow quizzically.

'He's coming with us – worried this guy is going to escape...' Owen makes no secret of his feelings.

Jack barks a laugh. 'Yeah, and I can see that happening...' Adam looks thoughtfully at Jack as he registers the accent and the non-regulation dress. Jack winks at him, to Adam's visible consternation.

They quickly load Saxon into the back of the borrowed ambulance. Jack slams the doors and gets into the cab, gunning the engine and activating the lights and siren. Owen looks at Adam as he quickly puts in an olfactory oxygen line – too risky for a mask.

'Right – some rules; you let me do my job, Adam, and I'll let you do yours, okay?'

'Fine by me. Where are you taking him?'

Owen finishes setting up the oxygen and makes a show of checking Saxon's pulse as the vehicle moves off, blue lights flashing.

'Royal - Christ! _Jack_!' Owen bangs sharply on the rear of the cab. 'I need help back here!' He flings open a cupboard, only to curse and pull open another.

'What's happening?' Adam is on his feet, suspicious. The ambulance comes to an abrupt halt, almost sending him flying.

'He's arrested! Help me look for the defibrillator! I don't know who last took this bloody van out but they didn't put the kit back... Jesus wept, where _is _it?'

The door opens and Jack climbs in. 'What's happening?'

'He's arrested and I can't find the bloody defibrillator – help me turn him over, quickly!'

Adam begins to search cupboards on the other side of the van. As Owen pretends to start manual CPR procedures on Saxon, Jack joins Adam in the search. Reaching for his bag, Owen grabs a syringe, snaps on an ampoule.

'What the -' Adam grunts in surprise as Jack's arm snakes around his neck from behind.

'Go, Owen!'

Adam curses and tries to fling Jack off, but the cramped space hinders him and Jack is strong. Adam swears roundly as Owen presses the plunger home. 'What's your bloody game? Who are you people?' _Harry will go ballistic if they're CIA..!_

'Sorry, can't tell you – 'need to know' and all that.' Owen says snarkily as he steps away to drop the syringe back into his bag.

Adam groans. 'What was in that syringe?'

'Don't worry - it's just a sedative; you'll wake up in an hour or so with a bit of a headache. It won't be half as bad as his, though...' he nods in Saxon's direction.

'Thought... You said he'd ...arrested?!' Adam slurs as the sedative quickly begins to take effect.

'Nah – I gave him a dose of the same stuff I gave you.'

'Bloody... hell...' Adam sags unconscious in Jack's arms, and is lowered unceremoniously to the floor. Jack steps over him and eyes Saxon suspiciously. 'So what's wrong with him, Owen?'

'God knows – I took a risk sedating him, to be honest, but I couldn't think of any other way to get him out of there. He's exhibiting symptoms of concussion, but that's not all that's going on. Help me turn him over.' They move Saxon back into the recovery position. Owen finishes securing the IV and looks at Jack. 'Well – are we going back to Cardiff or not? We shouldn't hang about, Jack.'

'Sure – but first we need to ditch Mister MI5 here. By the way, I suggest you restrain Saxon – believe me, he's going to be pretty angry when he wakes up.'

Owen raises his eyebrows. 'In my opinion, he's not going to be much danger to _anyone _for quite a while yet.' He indicates Saxon's bruised face. 'Someone's given him a bloody good going over, by the look of it.'

'I've no doubt he deserved it. Just _do_ it, Owen. I _know _this guy.'

Owen grumbles, but does as Jack suggests, using the stretcher straps to restrain Saxon, and adding another set for good measure.

'I don't want to keep him sedated for too long, Jack.' A patient with concussion needs to be kept conscious for as long as possible...

'Okay, okay – do what you have to do, but don't take your eyes off him for a second, you hear me?' He fishes out a pair of handcuffs from his coat pocket. 'Better put those on him, too.'

Owen just stares at him but doesn't take the cuffs.

Jack shrugs, pulls Saxon's arms behind him and fastens the cuffs, ignoring Owen's muttered 'Jesus, Jack...'

Jack manhandles the unconscious MI5 agent out of the ambulance, props him up against someone's garden hedge. He activates his earpiece, keys in a number on his wrist pad. 'Message for your boss – your colleague Adam is sleeping it off at ...' he looks at his wrist pad – 'SW1, Claymore Gardens, outside number 136. You might want to come and get him.'

Climbing back into the cab, Jack guns the engine and heads for the nearby street where they'd parked the SUV.

Harry Pearce is not at all happy, and he lets Adam know it in no uncertain terms.

'I suppose we must be bloody thankful it _wasn'_t the CIA...' he sighs heavily. 'Connie pulled the records from the police files. The investigating officer identified them as Torchwood.'

Adam rubs a hand tiredly over his face. He's still feeling the after affects of the sedative.

'Believe me, Harry; I've kicked myself a hundred times. But bloody _Torchwood_! What's _their _interest, for god's sake? It doesn't make any sense.'

'I don't know. But I intend to find out. In the meantime, I suggest you make your way to Cardiff. I'll send you with a driver, so that you can sleep it off on the journey.'

'You're all heart, Harry.'


	7. Chapter 7 - Deception

Author's note: Thank you to Brownbug, TheBlueSlinkey and GuessWho for your reviews, and welcome to new reader Otex!

**'The Master Chronicles - Book One  
>Chapter 7 : Deception'<strong>

In the back of the ambulance, The Master is slowly regaining consciousness as the antidote Owen has given him begins to takes effect. Owen thinks Jack is over-reacting by cuffing Saxon; he doesn't rate the man's chances of getting very far even if he does manage to escape, but Jack had been insistent.

The Master lifts his head and looks blearily around as far as the cuffs will allow. Registering his still captive state he groans, his expression pained.

'How're you feeling?' Owen takes Saxon's pulse, ignoring the man's attempt to pull away. _He's burning up – has to be more than a simple infection... _without knowing more about Saxon's physiology, he's reluctant to give any treatment other than saline and oxygen. For all he knows, penicillin could kill the man.

The Master ignores the question. He rattles the cuffs, grimacing in pain. 'Is this _strictly _necessary?' His tone is peeved.

'Sorry. Orders from the boss.'

Saxon winces. 'Who _are_ you? And to what do I owe this ... _pleasure_?'

'Doctor Owen Harper at your service.' Owen bows with a mocking air. 'Call it my good deed for the day. How'd you end up in such a sorry state, then?'

The Master frowns, considers. Although still pale and feverish, he seems to have slightly recovered his wits, Owen notes. Not to mention a high-handed manner that gets his back up.

'If memory serves, I believe I was...'mugged' – and those thugs will be top of my list of people to deal with, believe me.'

Owen snorts. 'Well _that's_ not going to be happening anytime soon – you're concussed, for a start, and you may have a broken rib or two. So what's your real name, Mr Saxon?' Owen is damned if he'll use that other, ridiculous, name. No way that this guy is going to have mastery over him. Even the name has unsettling connotations.

The Master frowns. 'As I've said before, that _isn't _my name. Why do you people ...just leave me alone.' He coughs painfully, dropping his head back onto the gurney and closes his eyes, dismissing Owen.

'OK, I get that you don't want to talk to me. But you_ do_ need to stay awake. Can you tell me where you've got pain?'

After a long silence in which Owen thinks he's not going to get an answer, Saxon finally speaks his tone is weary. 'It would probably be quicker to tell you what _doesn't_ hurt.' He moves restlessly. 'Undo the bloody cuffs - I'm hardly going to run away, am I?'

Owen regards Saxon with something akin to dislike. Is this really the same man who charmed his way into government? Owen recalls that he - along with most of the country, it seemed, judging by the election results - had voted for the man. Where's his charisma now? There's something about Saxon which puts Owen on edge; he has an overwhelming impression of danger tightly coiled. For the first time he thinks he begins to understand why Jack's caution might be well founded.

'Prefer to choke on your own vomit, would you?' There's no reply from Saxon and Owen turns away and busies himself tidying away the equipment he'd pulled out during his 'search'. 'Just try to stay awake until I can take a better look at that head wound.'

He pulls on sterile gloves and ignoring the glare Saxon gives him places an aural thermometer into the man's ear for a few moments. He removes it and frowns. _106 – Bloody hell, how is this guy even conscious? _Owen mentally reviews the contents of his medical kit again – there's nothing he'd feel comfortable about administering without first doing tests. How long can Saxon survive without treatment? He decides on a saline drip – that at least should be safe and might ward off shock.

'Where are you taking me?' Saxon's anger seems to have dissipated as quickly as it appeared. He doesn't resist as Owen rolls up his sleeve.

'I'm afraid can't tell you that. Sorry, not my decision. Try to stay awake, Saxon,' he adds as Saxon closes his eyes. 'You're running a hell of a fever and you're concussed. Don't want you slipping into a coma, do we?' Owen deftly slips the needle into a vein and tapes the cannula to Saxon's hand.

'What do you care...?' Saxon shivers as the cool fluid enters his bloodstream.

'Personally, I don't. Look, I don't know about where you come from, mate, but here we take the Hippocratic Oath very seriously. So put up and shut up.'

Owen takes a sterile swab and carefully cleans around the wound on the back of the Master's head. Someone has already made an attempt – a poor one – to clean it. Saxon draws in a sharp breath.

'Sorry.'

'I doubt it.' The venomous glare Saxon gives Owen does nothing to endear him to his patient.

'Look, regardless of my personal feelings, I'm here to help, you ungrateful bastard. Maybe we should've left you with your chums at MI5.'

'Then... why didn't you...' Saxon's voice is weaker now.

Owen briefly considers not answering; he's tired of bandying words with the man. But at least it's keeping him awake.

'God knows... but my boss seems to have plans for you.'

'I can hardly... wait...' the Master whispers, sweat running down his face in rivulets. Owen soaks some wadding in bottled water and does his best to bring Saxon's temperature down. Privately he's not optimistic of the Master's chances of surviving the journey to Cardiff; but he'll be dammed if it's because he didn't do his best.

*****

The ambulance comes to a halt, and Jack flings the door open.

The Master's eyes flutter open as Jack climbs into the van and he focuses with some difficulty.

'I know...you...from somewhere...' An image of the American standing in manacles, clothes dirty and ragged, suddenly flashes into his mind and is gone as quickly as it came, leaving him with a pounding headache.

'Oh, really? Nice of you to remember me. Shame I can't return the compliment.'

Owen glances from one to the other – Jack's expression is as hard as Owen has ever seen it, hatred of Saxon evident in the set of his mouth. The Master's reaction is mainly dazed bafflement. It's clear to Owen that he really doesn't remember who Jack is or how they're acquainted.

'Here's where we switch cars.' Jack draws his Webley and keeps it trained on the Master as Owen undoes the restraints, collecting the IV bag and helping the shivering man to stand. As they clamber awkwardly down out of the ambulance, Owen looks pointedly at the revolver.

'Come on Jack, Is that really necessary? I mean, look at him – hardly going to make a run for it is he?'

The Master stumbles, turns to regard Jack with a frown. _That name... how do I know you, 'Jack'? _

'Keep moving, Saxon.' Jack is damned if he'll use the Time Lord's chosen name, not when it had seemed to give him such pleasure the last time they met. Reluctantly, he admits to himself that it does indeed seem as if the Master has lost his memory – not once has he addressed Jack as 'the freak'.

*

The journey back to Cardiff is uneventful. Despite Owens' attempts to keep him awake, the Master drifts in and out of consciousness, and he wishes that it hadn't been necessary to sedate him earlier: it goes against all the rules for treatment of concussion. Of course, if the guy really is an alien (and Owen has no reason to doubt Jack's word, however improbable it might seem) then perhaps the same rules don't apply? Certainly no human could survive a temperature of 106 for this long. By rights, Saxon shouldn't be alive.

*

They reach Cardiff in the middle of a misty afternoon and make their way to the Hub in silence, the only sound being Saxons' delirious mutterings. Jack has barely said a word during the journey, and disappears into his office as soon as The Master is settled into the sickbay; he'd briefly roused as they walked him across the plaza, but otherwise barely seemed to register his surroundings.

Neither Ianto Gwen nor Tosh are to be seen, but a post-it note stuck to Tosh's' screen reads tersely: 'Weevil, Splott - allotments. Back ASAP. T.'

Owen runs a battery of tests on the Master and is intrigued by what he finds; a sample of blood for DNA analysis reveals that he is not wholly human, even if he looks it. Perhaps strangest of all, he has two hearts - only one of which appears to be working - and a number of other organs whose function Owen cannot even begin to guess at.

An MRI scan also reveals some very strange scarring on the skeleton – almost as if the bones have been stretched and manipulated a number of times, which makes no sense at all. Another check on pupil dilation times seems to indicate that the concussion, although still present, may not be a major factor in Saxon's condition. The man is still unconscious and running a high fever. What the hell is causing it?

Jack reappears. He stands staring down at the unconscious Time Lord for a long moment. Finally, he seems to reach a decision.

'I want him in one of the cells downstairs.'

'Oh, come on, Jack - you're kidding me! The bloke's concussed; he's been beaten up and he's got three cracked ribs. And did I mention he's running a fever of 106? I can't sanction moving him at the moment.'

As he speaks, Owen watches Saxon carefully. He's restless, his head moving from side to side if he's dreaming. Or having nightmares, Owen thinks, as Saxon mutters and moves fretfully on the examination table. The fever has yet to reach its crisis – when it does, Owen wants the man where he can deal with any emergency that might arise. It's going to be a long night, and Owen is already knackered.

'This isn't a debate, Owen. I_ know_ what this guy is capable of, remember? I'm not taking any chances. I'll carry him down there myself if I have to.'

Owen and Jack glare at each other. Owen sighs, knowing that Jack will do what he wants, regardless.

'OK. But I want him monitored; and he shouldn't be left alone. I've got some more tests running; we should have the results in an hour or two.'

Jack sighs. He'd hoped to have the Master out of the Hub faster than that – he's a loose canon and the less time his people are exposed, the better. It's all very well for the Doctor to say that the Master is _his_ responsibility – but he isn't here, is he? What is Jack meant to do in the meantime – just let the Master go on his merry murdering way? Not while Jack still has breath in his body. Martha has tried to contact the Doctor and failed and her continuing silence doesn't bode well.

Jack hopes that he won't be forced to make a decision which could lose him his friendship with the Doctor. But Jack made his choice when he chose to stay with Torchwood. Was that only a few short days ago? He claps Owen on the shoulder – Owen is more short-tempered than usual, a sign that he's tired.

'OK Owen, I hear what you're saying. He goes to the cells, but I'll take first watch. You get your head down for an hour or two.'

Owen meets Jack's gaze for a long moment. He's not stupid; he can see that Jack hates Saxon intensely; enough to kill him?

'Owen – if he deteriorates, or there's any change, I _will_ call you, I promise. You've got my word on that.'

*

The Master appears to be dreaming; Jack watches dispassionately as he twitches and mutters in his sleep. Jack had the impression from his –admittedly brief- time with the Doctor that Time Lords don't actually need much sleep. The Master had certainly never seemed to rest much on the Valiant; whatever he had been up to when he and Lucy retired to their suite after each busy day murdering millions (the Master) and drifting around vacantly (Lucy) Jack had somehow thought that sleep didn't figure much in it if Lucy's increasingly pale and exhausted state had been any indication. He recalls with remembered anger how the Time Lord had taken great delight in depriving his prisoners of sleep, apparently just to see the effect it would have on them. For some reason the Master had been none too pleased to discover that Jack could stay awake for days without ill effect. He had made his displeasure plain in ways that Jack doesn't care too much to dwell on.

'Lucy!' The Master suddenly opens his eyes with a gasp.

'Sweet dreams, were they?' Jack stands close to the Perspex door. The Master looks up at him and blinks.

'What?'

'Were you beating her or raping her, you bastard?' Jack snarls.

To Jack's utter astonishment the Master's face crumples.

_Bloody hell, he's ... crying? The Master is __crying__?_ Unable to deal with this disturbing image Jack thumps the Perspex, making the Master flinch. 'Lay off it, Saxon – you're not fooling anyone.'

The Master tries to bring his hands up to his face but realises that his hands are still cuffed behind him. He sinks back onto his stomach with a groan, his shoulders shaking as he continues to sob silently.

The Master's grief appears genuine and is so totally at odds with everything Jack thought he knew about the Timelord that he's at a loss, and that doesn't happen too often. He hits the intercom. 'Owen – you awake? Need you down here...'

When the door slides back it isn't Owen who appears but Gwen, carrying two coffees. Jack sighs. 'Where's Owen?' He'd wanted to avoid exposing any more of his team than strictly necessary to the Master, but supposes it was at best a forlorn hope.

'He's fast asleep on the couch. I don't know what you two got up to last night, but he looks bloody knackered.' Jack doesn't respond to her humour and she follows the direction of his gaze.

'What've we got here?' She looks at the array of monitors Owen has set up outside the cell.

Either the sound of a different voice or the aroma of fresh coffee seems to rouse Saxon. He struggles into a sitting position and stares at Gwen. Jack is disconcerted to see that tears are still running down his face but before he can answer her, Gwen has pushed him aside to get a better look.

'Bloody hell, Jack – is that who I _think_ it is?'

'Depends _who_ you think it is, Gwen.' Jack says resignedly. He's discovering that most people don't seem to recognise Saxon outright –perhaps not surprising, given his injuries and the sorry state of his clothes, but Gwen has always been a keen observer and never forgets a face.

Gwen thumps his arm, spilling his coffee. 'Don't play games with _me_, Jack Harkness – that's Harold Saxon you've got there. Only the bloody Prime Minister, for God's sake! Why is he here?'

Like the rest of the Torchwood team, Gwen knows that Saxon was assumed to have murdered his cabinet and was also said to have been responsible for the death of President Winters. She'd vaguely assumed that he'd been taken out by one or other of the security services. Now here he is a few short days later in a Torchwood cell and looking very much the worse for wear.

'It's a long story...' Jack seems distinctly ill at ease. Gwen looks searchingly at him then at Saxon, who has made some effort to compose himself and is eyeing Gwen in a calculating way that Jack doesn't like one little bit.

'What's the matter with him? He looks bloody dreadful – who did this to him? And why isn't he in sickbay?'

'Thank goodness... a voice of reason... at last!' Saxon swings his legs to the floor and tries unsuccessfully to stand. He sinks back down onto the bunk, breathing heavily.

Gwen turns to Jack in astonishment. 'Why the hell have you got cuffs on him, Jack? He's not Harry bloody Houdini, is he?' Gwen's sense of fair play is outraged. There are certain standards of treatment even for criminals, and in her books this comes nowhere near humane.

'Gwen – just leave it, okay? You know what he did –'

'No, Jack, I won't bloody leave it! Oh yeah, I know what he's _supposed_ to have done - so why isn't he in police custody? Since when did Torchwood get involved in the criminal justice system?'

'Harry Saxon is not who you think he is. He's –'

'Bollocks, Jack! I voted for this man –and you were _going_ to, remember, before you went swanning off? And if he really _is _a murderer, then he deserves a fair trial just like anyone else! What's the matter with you?' Gwen paces, flings out an arm to indicate Saxon. 'Just look at him, Jack! Can't you see he's ill? He shouldn't be locked up like - like –'

'Gwen, I'm trying to tell you here, if you'd just shut up for a second!'

Jack hasn't failed to notice that although still pale, the Master is still conscious and has been following their conversation with considerable interest.

Gwen stands with her arms crossed, her face like thunder. 'Ok. This is me, shutting up. Tell me.'

'He's not human, Gwen. Harry Saxon is an alien. He's from a planet called Gallifrey and he goes by the name of 'the Master'. And yes, he _did_ murder the President and the entire bloody cabinet, not to mention ten per cent of the population! And that was just for starters...' Jack realises he's said more than he ever intended but it's too late now.

Gwen splutters. 'Yeah, right. _Millions_? And it wasn't on News at Ten? Bit difficult to keep that quiet, I'd have thought. But OK, assuming this is all true, what were you planning to do with him, exactly?'

Gwen is confused - how could Saxon possibly have done all that? He'd hardly been in power five minutes before the President was killed – and important they might be, but the British Cabinet consisted of a fairly small number of people, not exactly millions. Why would Jack say such a thing?

Jack sighs. 'It happened, Gwen, believe me. And I hadn't 'exactly' got that far – a friend of mine is kind of responsible for him but I haven't been able to get hold of him.' He turns away, pacing up and down as he considers how much more to tell Gwen. And why the hell hasn't Martha been able to get hold of the Doctor? He should have heard from her –or him- by now. A cry of surprise from Gwen brings him back to the present.

'Jesus! Jack – get Owen down here now!' Before he can stop her, Gwen is unlocking the cell door and is kneeling down beside the Master, who appears to be having some kind of fit.

*

Owen sits back on his heels. 'He seems stable for now – I just wish I could keep him awake for more than a few bloody minutes at a time. I daren't give him another stimulant - it could kill him. Someone needs to stay with him while I go and check those test results - they should be ready about now.' He gets to his feet and hurries from the cell, muttering under his breath.

Gwen looks up at Jack from her position perched on the edge of the bunk on which the Master lies.

'This man should be in hospital, Jack. And you know it.' She wipes the Master's brow. Jack can hardly bear to watch.

'He's not _human_, Gwen! They wouldn't know how to treat him.'

'And we _do_? By keeping him in a cell? Come off it, Jack – Owen is good but even _he's_ not sure what's wrong with him, is he?' She places her palm against the Master's forehead. 'He's burning up, Jack. We've got to do _something!_'

'Lucy...' the Master whispers.

'My name is Gwen, Mr Saxon. Just relax now.' Gwen places a comforting hand on Saxon's arm.

'Gwen...' Jack feels sick to his stomach. He has vowed never to fully divulge to his team the events that took place during that year; but he's coming damn close to breaking that vow right now. If Gwen only knew what the Master had done she wouldn't be mopping his damn brow that much was for sure.

'Bugger off, Jack.' Gwen speaks lightly, but there is steel behind the words.

Reluctantly, Jack goes to seek out Owen.

*

_Harry Saxon is an alien. He's from a planet called Gallifrey _...there's a sharp pain in his skull and a sudden kaleidoscope of images invading his mind – an orange sky, tall spires under a protective dome, scenes of carnage and bewildering creatures and explosions and noise and faces - a blonde woman in a red dress laughing beneath him, and then later, the same woman, backing away from him in fear...Lucy? An old man who looks at him with sad, dark eyes; a young, dark-skinned woman kneeling in front of him – she's laughing softly and it enrages him but he can't remember why; metal spheres falling from a rip in the sky, voices screaming, screaming... music, glorious, invigorating music – and again the old man, only this time he's writhing in pain at his feet and there's a feeling of power and anger - a younger man who has the same sad eyes, imploring him to _just stop_!... his name is... and overlaying it all is the relentless pounding of a somehow familiar drumbeat. He can't focus on the images now as they pour across his mind in a relentless torrent and he sways dizzily on the bunk as the humans bicker amongst themselves. He can't think... _my name... my name is... is... _memory returns with a rush of white heat and unbearable pain. He's falling and dimly hears the woman – Gwen – cry out in surprise. He feels cool hands on his brow, hears the rise and fall of their voices arguing over him as he lies helpless. As the torrent of images continues to pour across his mind he tries to block them out, he can't..._stop, please just stop_... he passes out.

*****

'So, what the hell is going on with him, Owen?'

Jack watches as Owen stabs at his keyboard, calling up test results and frowning all the while. He'd meant what he said to the Doctor on the airfield about breaking Saxon's neck and wishes now that he had done it. God knows, he has seen some terrible things during his long life; but the full horror of what the Master did to the people of Earth during his reign of terror would never fade. That time has reset and ten percent of the Human population isn't aware that they once died (didn't die? Will die?) in a now non-existent future doesn't make a jot of difference to those who witnessed it. Certainly the images are seared into Jack's memory and he doubts that anything –save permanent death- will ever erase them.

Without the influence of the Archangel network, the Master is less the charismatic young man who wooed the British public so successfully; now he's just a cold, sociopathic killer. Just being in the same room makes Jack's skin crawl. Oh, he can see an echo of the charm, charisma and sex appeal but it's a shadow of its former intensity, at least as far as Jack is concerned. Not that he will ever stop seeing the Master as a threat, whatever his state of health.

The Doctor had told Jack and Martha that without the influence of the Archangel Network people would be able to see the Master for what he really is – but there's no Archangel Network now and it bothers Jack that Gwen still doesn't seem to see the threat the Master poses. He'd assumed that the Master's prowess with women was due entirely to the Archangel influence. What if it wasn't?

'Jack, are you even listening to me?!' A disgruntled voice breaks into his reverie. He starts – he hadn't even realised that Owen was talking to him.

'Sorry, Owen – got a lot on my mind. What did you find?'

'Well for a start, his DNA says he's partly human. I thought you said he was from... where was it?'

'He's from a planet called Gallifrey.' _I'd tell you the co-ordinates but it wouldn't mean anything... _there are moments when Jack remembers the freedom of the Time Agency and this is one of them. Just as well the Doctor had deactivated his Vortex Manipulator or maybe he wouldn't be here right now, with no choice but to deal with this maniac again. He pushes the thought away – he made his choice.

'Right... Well, looking at this, he appears to be at least part-human. He's also got a binary cardio vascular system - two hearts, only one of which is working, and some other organs I'm not familiar with. And there's something weird going on with his bone structure.'

'_Weird_...?' Jack raises an eyebrow.

Owen flicks the switch on the light box, revealing x-rays of Saxon's skeleton. He points.

'See these marks on the bones – here, here – and here... in fact they're all over, on every bone surface. It's almost as if... well, it sounds mad, but it's as if the bones have been stretched into different shapes over time. I've never seen anything like it.' He stares at Jack. 'Somehow you don't seem surprised.'

Jack shakes his head. 'It's called regeneration. His people do that when their bodies are mortally injured.'

Owen frowns. 'What – they just... grow a new body? Bloody hell - if that catches here I'll be out of a job.'

*

Gwen is angry. And somehow disappointed; she'd thought better of Jack than this. They'd had their disagreements before now but this ... Gwen is appalled. She doesn't condone murder, of course she bloody doesn't – but Jack shouldn't be setting himself up as judge, jury and - she suspects - would-be executioner, no matter what Saxon might have done. She still can't quite get her head around Prime Minister Harold Saxon being an alien. He looks every inch human. Mind you, so had Mary and so many others, she reminds herself. _But_ _Harry Saxon... an alien?_

She studies him, trying to reconcile the energetic and charismatic public figure of memory with the injured man lying still and pale on the cell bunk. She recalls hearing stories of outrageous behaviour, but he and his wife – Lucy, whatever happened to_her_? – had seemed to be quite the golden couple. Young, attractive... and OK, she admitted to herself, she'd quite fancied him - along with half the female population of Great Britain, if his landslide victory had been any indication. But if he _has _murdered a room full of senior MP's and the American President then he should go on trial for it. She has the feeling that there rather a lot Jack isn't saying. What does he know about Harry Saxon that would cause him to keep the man prisoner like this? She's going to get him back down here and have it out with him, she decides.

She stands up and Saxon mutters something unintelligible, his voice a dry croak.

'Mr. Saxon?'

_'Don't go.' _ He opens his eyes, looks at her almost imploringly.

'No, of course not – can I get you anything - a glass of water?'

He nods weakly.

'Here – let's sit you up a bit first.' Gwen helps him to an upright position against the wall. 'I'll be right back.'

When she returns with the bottled water Saxon is still leaning against the wall, dozing. He opens his eyes as the door slides shut and lifts his still cuffed hands – at least they're no longer behind his back but Jack had refused to remove them altogether - in a resigned manner.

'Oops, sorry, forgot about that.' She brings the bottle to his lips, tips carefully as he gulps at the water. This is surreal – they've got Prime Minister Harold Saxon locked in a Torchwood cell and he's wearing handcuffs ...why the bloody hell _is_ he still in cuffs? He plainly isn't much of a threat to anyone, is he? _Doesn't look as if he could fight his way out of a paper bag!_

'How're you feeling now?'

He leans back against the wall, closes his eyes and sighs.

'Let's put it this way – I've had better days.' He swallows. 'Why am I here... Gwen? More to the point, _where_ am I?' He looks around the stark cell in confusion. 'What kind of place is this?'

Gwen hesitates. 'To be honest with you, Mr Saxon, I don't actually know _why_ you're here. As to where you are ... you're in Cardiff. I work for Torchwood. I'm not sure I should have told you that. My boss might not be too happy.' She smiles tersely. Surely the Prime Minister would have heard of Torchwood, right? So it's not as though she's giving away any secrets.

Saxon meets her gaze and gives a tiny smile of his own. 'Call me Harry, please. And who might your ... 'boss'... be?'

Gwen finds herself smiling back. 'That's Jack – the American who was here earlier. Don't you remember?'

Saxon's eyes narrow. 'Oh... yes, I remember him. I'm here at his behest, am I?' He shudders as the fever courses through his body and closes his eyes.

'It looks that way, yes.' Gwen pauses. 'Look, do you mind if I ask you something Mr Saxon?'

Saxon sighs and wearily opens his eyes. He regards her with one eyebrow raised in an expression she's seen countless times on television.

'Ask away.'

She swallows.

'Right... Um... Did you... I mean, the rumour was that you ... I don't quite know how to put this... '

'Did I slaughter the entire British cabinet in cold blood?' He stares at her, his expression unfathomable.

'Er... Yes.' Now Gwen is feeling distinctly wrong-footed. She clears her throat nervously. 'I mean... it's only what they're saying...'

Saxon closes his eyes again and sighs heavily. 'Please. You shouldn't believe _everything_ you hear, Gwen. And I suppose your next question...' His eyes shoot open and he regards her with a steady gaze that makes her feel distinctly uncomfortable - 'is did I murder President Winters?'

'Um...'

'Well, let me save you the trouble. I didn't murder _anyone_. As a matter of fact, I was nicely framed by an acquaintance of mine. Who also... ' His voice falters and he swallows, closing his eyes briefly as if the memory is painful.

'...I think he murdered my wife. Lucy...' He finishes in a whisper. He turns anguished eyes on Gwen, tears sparkling on his lashes.

Gwen is mortified. Who is she to believe - Jack, who she trusts implicitly, or the broken man in front of her? Gwen is no fool; she knows that even the most convincing display of distress can disguise a murderer. You see it all the time – the distraught husband or partner appealing on television for anyone with information about his or her missing relative to come forward, when all the time they'd buried them under the bloody patio. But all Gwen's instincts are telling her that Harry Saxon is telling the truth. He's not who Jack seems to think he is. She makes a decision.

'Look, I'm so sorry about all this. It's all wrong. I'm going to get Jack down here and –'

'No, please! Don't do that!' Saxon awkwardly wipes his eyes with a sleeve. 'He's not going to let me go, you know that.'

Gwen stops in her tracks. 'What do you mean?'

'My memory _is_ coming back, but there are still big gaps. I don't know what Jacks' connection is with me, or why he's holding me here, but he's made it plain that he doesn't trust me –' Saxon holds up his manacled hands. 'He pulled a gun on me earlier, Gwen – I believe if your colleague hadn't been there he would have murdered me there and then.' He sniffs, squares his shoulders in a seeming attempt at bravado.

'No! Not Jack – he wouldn't...' Or would he? Gwen has seen Jack's ruthless streak more than once.

'I want to prove my innocence, Gwen. And I can't do that from the inside of a cell. I need to get out. Will you help me?'

*

Jack wryly acknowledges Owens' astonishment with a grim smile. 'The last time I saw Saxon he was dead - shot by his wife, Lucy.' In his minds' eye Jack sees the lifeless body cradled in the Doctor's arms and hears the sound of desperate grief.

'I remember her – nice figure, not a lot up top. Whatever happened to her? Why did she kill him?'

'How about the fact that he was beating her, he'd got her hooked on drugs, cheated on her with other women... you name it. She disappeared after President Winters was murdered. But Saxon was dead, I'm certain of that. And so was my friend...he was real cut up about it.' ...'

He recalls the broken shell that was all that had been left of Lucy Cole after the Master had finished with her. As for the Doctor...Jack wonders again why he hasn't shown up yet, wonders how he is... he'd seemed more himself when Jack last saw him on Roald Dahl Plaas but then the Doctor is good at hiding his feelings...

'Blimey. Who'd have thought it? Never did trust politicians. So now Saxon's regenerated?'

'No, that's just it. When his people regenerate, they change their appearance. Saxon looks the same as he did before he died. He refused to regenerate, to ... take revenge ...'

'Let me guess – this would be the bloke you said is 'responsible' for him? So where _is_ he, then? Why isn't he here, taking responsibility?'

'He's away travelling. I haven't been able to get hold of him yet.'

'What do you expect him to do when he _does_ get here?'

Jack sighs. 'I have no idea.'

*

Gwen swallows. She feels for Saxon, she really does – but this is too much. He's asking her to betray a man who has saved her life more than once. She isn't sure she can do it and for the first time questions her wisdom in being alone with Saxon. Jack wouldn't have him chained up for no good reason... would he?

'Gwen. Look at me.' The voice is compelling, and Gwen slowly looks up to meet Saxon's steady gaze. There is something very persuasive about him and suddenly she feels a prickle of fear.

He holds up the handcuffs, as if sensing her doubt.

'I'm hardly in a position to hurt anyone, am I? I've been mugged, accused of mass murder and to cap it all...' Saxon gulps, his voice suddenly trembling with the effort of holding back tears. 'I don't ow what's happened to Lucy.'

Gwen opens her mouth to say something, anything to allay his fears but Saxon continues.

'Your boss... Jack... all but accused me of killing her as well...But I didn't... I couldn't...' He leans forward, elbows on his knees, and bows his head.

'Oh god, I'm so sorry - really I am!' Gwen finds herself rushing forward, fear forgotten. She places what she hopes is a comforting hand on Saxon's shoulder. 'We'll sort this out, somehow, I promise. Jack's not an unreasonable man; if I could just talk to him, I'm sure I could make him see sense.'

Saxon draws a deep, shuddering breath.

'That won't work. He's totally convinced that he's in the right. I need to be able to prove to him that I'm not who – or what – he thinks I am. I can only do that with freedom – and your kind help, if you're willing to give it.'

He looks searchingly into Gwen's eyes. 'But if you don't trust me, if you'd feel more comfortable leaving me to Jack's ministrations, then I must just accept it with good grace, mustn't I?' He swallows, turns away from her and lays down facing the wall.

'You must make the decision, Gwen. I'd like to get some rest now, if you don't mind. '

Gwen stands in an agony of indecision. _Innocent until proven guilty_, comes the thought.

'OK. I'll do it.'

She doesn't see the satisfied smirk on the Master's lips as she opens the cell door. Saxon sits up, swinging his legs to the floor. Gwen frowns as she sees the IV.

'Look, are you sure you're fit enough for this?'

He nods. 'Just pull it out, Gwen. I'm over the worst. Your colleague did well.'

'Well...okay, if you're sure...?' Gwen does as she's bid, wincing as blood wells where she's pulled the line out. 'Just press down on that for a minute.' She pulls the jacket over his shoulder. He still seems a little warm and is definitely an unhealthy shade of pale. 'Jack has the key to the cuffs; but I think I have another set in my car. I can sort them out once we get you out of here. Can you walk?' She helps Saxon to stand, letting him lean against her for a second as he stands upright, seems to fight dizziness.

'I think so.' He leans in close and plants a chaste kiss on her cheek. 'Thank you, Gwen. This means so much to me and I know how difficult a decision it was for you.'

Gwen blushes, startled and embarrassed by the sudden intimacy. 'Save your thanks for now – I've got to get you out of here first!'

In the event, it proves easier than Gwen could have imagined. Ianto and Tosh are still out (or maybe they've gone home - Gwen has lost all track of time) and she can hear the murmur of voices in Jack's office, where he and Owen are talking in low tones. I'm _sorry, Jack_, she thinks as she and Saxon creep past, and head for the lift.


	8. Chapter 8

With thanks to Brownbug for your review of Chapter 7 – I hope everyone else is still enjoying the story! This time Gwen comes to realise that she has made a very big mistake in helping Saxon...

Warning – this chapter contains some adult material but I have toned it down a little from the original (which can be found on my Weebly site if you're that interested! Please PM me for a linky thing if so...) in order to keep within the FanFic ratings. I don't think it has suffered too much – may even be better, in fact!

So, I hope you will enjoy...

Chapter Eight Part One - Flight

'So far, so good...' Gwen and Saxon have made it as far as her car without being seen by her colleagues. The Master sits quietly but in obvious discomfort in the front passenger seat, eyes darting around them as he looks for signs of pursuit. His hands are still cuffed and it's obvious that the journey from the cell to the car has taken its toll.

'Excuse me.' Gwen leans across him to rummage in the glove box. The spare set of handcuff keys she keeps forgetting to take back into the Hub is still there and she heaves a sigh of relief.

'I'll soon have those off.' Saxon doesn't reply and Gwen glances up as she removes the cuffs. Saxon is chalk white, beads of sweat running down his face. She drops the cuffs onto the back seat as he rubs his wrists where the cuffs have chafed them.

'Look, are you sure this is such a good idea? I really think we should get you to a Doctor - you're not well at all, are you?' She lightly touches his forehead, confirming that he still has a fever. He flinches slightly at her touch.

'I'm fine,' he says quietly, though it's obvious to Gwen that he's anything but. 'Please – can we just get out of here ...?' He leans his head back and shuts his eyes.

'Okay, if you're sure...' Gwen starts the car. Where can they go? She suddenly wishes she'd thought this through properly before agreeing to help. She isn't accustomed to hiding people from the law. Bloody hell, up until 18 months ago she _was_ the law! _Come on Gwen, think!_Where will Harry Saxon be safe while they try to prove him innocent? She can't take him home, that's for sure. Yet another secret she'll have from Rhys... she sighs.

'Why aren't we moving?' There's a note to Saxon's voice which Gwen isn't sure she much likes, but she dismisses the thought. He's entitled to feel pissed off, all things considered.

'Sorry. I'm trying to think of somewhere you'd be safe.'

'A hotel, perhaps?'

That's all very well, Gwen thinks, but who's going to pay for it? Her Torchwood salary is pretty good, but how long is all this going to take? And how is she to explain to Rhys where big chunks of her salary are going? 'Oh by the way, Rhys – I'm just paying for a hotel room for the ex-Prime Minister who's on the run from the police. That alright with you, love?' No; she can't see that working.

'I don't think my salary would run to that, Mr Saxon. Besides, you need somewhere you won't be recognised. Somewhere out of the way, like.'

He sighs. 'Oh, do call me Harry, for goodness' sake – let's not be so formal. As for the cost – well, if you can find somewhere for tonight, I think I may be able to remedy that problem.' _Dead hoteliers don't tend to require payment._

_Yep, he's definitely pissed off. Oops._'That's great! I mean – I'm sorry, I would've, you know-'

Saxon sighs. 'Please don't worry about it, Gwen. I understand perfectly. Just because I was a ... high-ranking civil servant... doesn't mean I don't understand your...financial constraints.' He closes his eyes again.

Gwen flashes him a look which says _Oh Yeah?_ But he seems unaware of how patronising he'd sounded and she lets it go. _You said it yourself, Gwen – he's entitled to be pissed off, isn't he?_

She turns the car towards the suburbs, remembering a guesthouse where the landlady doesn't ask questions. CID uses it on occasion for witness protection. She can only hope they aren't using it at the moment; they'd be bound to recognise Saxon, wouldn't they? No, that's not such a good idea then. Looks like it'll have to be the M4 Travelodge at Pontyclun; it'll be more expensive than the guesthouse but those places are pretty anonymous. And it's not too far away on the same road – another glance at her passenger confirms that a long journey wouldn't be advisable.

Owen switches the light box off and glances towards the monitor showing Saxon's cell. 'Shit!' He snatches up his mobile and runs for the stairs, thumping Jack's door as he goes past. 'Jack! Saxon's gone!' He doesn't wait for Jack but takes the stairs two at a time, pausing only to repeatedly dial Gwen's number - but there's no response. She's switched her phone off. 'Gwen – Owen here. Where are you? Are you okay? Get back to me as soon as you can.'

Jack is furious as he paces the empty cell. 'I _knew_ I shouldn't have left her alone with him! Bloody Bastard! If he's hurt her...' Now Jack is convinced; he _should_have snapped Saxon's neck at the airfield, no question. He thumps the wall in anger.

Owen sits despondently on the bunk. 'I don't understand this guy's symptoms at all, Jack. One minute he's unconscious, next minute he's on the bloody run. How the hell did he even get out of the cuffs?'

Jack paces the cell. 'Maybe he didn't – might still be wearing them. But I'd guess Gwen has a set of keys. As for the rest – I don't have a clue, Owen.'

A nasty suspicion has begun to form in the back of Jacks' mind about the human DNA which Saxon now seems to possess; but he's none too sure about the physiology of Time Lords and is reluctant to voice it just yet. He racks his memory - had the Doctor ever mentioned either of the Time Lords having Human blood? He's pretty sure he hadn't. But would it be something the Doctor is likely to want to conceal? Jack can't see any reason for it. But he's forced to admit that there is a lot he doesn't know about the Doctor or his people. The Time Lord is very good at getting people to talk about themselves, but never gives much away about himself. Jack knows he'll have to confide in Owen at some point, but at the moment the matter of the Masters' bloodline hardly seems important compared to the danger Gwen is in. He stares around the cell, trying to push away his anger so that he can see clearly. 'There's no sign of a struggle, no blood – with any luck he won't have hurt her yet. Not while she's still useful to him.'

'Where would he go? More to the point, Jack, where _could_he go? People are bound to recognise him.'

'That's what I don't get – why didn't he just regenerate when he had the chance? Talk about cutting your nose off to spite your face... he's not as clever as he likes to think he is...'

By the time they reach Pontyclun, Saxon is barely conscious. He rouses enough to stare dully at their surroundings. 'I won't be long,' she assures him. He gives a monosyllabic grunt and sinks back against the seat.

Gwen pays for a double room for 'Mr and Mrs Jones', explaining that they're visiting relatives in Cardiff, and that her 'husband' is still in the car – he isn't too well, having been mugged on a recent business trip to London. The desk clerk – a spotty young man wearing a badly-ironed shirt - is uninterested, taking her money and handing over the keycard to a room on the second floor with a bored air.

_He probably thinks we're having an affair..._Gwen mentally winces at the thought. She contemplates asking for a room on the ground floor but decides not to draw further attention to them – at least it's out of the way. It could have been worse, since the Motel has four floors. She returns to the car and eventually manages to rouse Saxon. The desk clerk is absent when they make their unsteady way through the lobby and Gwen heaves a sigh of relief.

They trudge up the two flights of stairs and Saxon is leaning on her heavily by the time they reach the room.

'What's wrong with you?' Gwen feels compelled to ask, as she shuts the door behind them. Saxon drops onto the bed and gives her a baleful glare.

'Apart from concussion and a couple of cracked ribs, I really have no idea.'

In fact, the Master is beginning to have his suspicions, but he isn't about to confide them to Gwen. There's only one person he can talk to about this, and _he_ believes the Master to be dead. He pushes the beginnings of fear to the back of his mind. _Concentrate. _If only he didn't feel so weak... he needs to rest, then work on a plan to bring the Doctor to him; preferably with his TARDIS in tow... he closes his eyes and sinks back onto the mattress.

Gwen looks around the room. It's adequate. Almost certainly not what Saxon will be used to, but she can't help that. She studies him, noting the hollows in his cheeks, the drawn face.

'When did you last eat?'

Saxon's mouth curls in a wry smile, his eyes still shut. 'You wouldn't believe me if I told you, Gwen.' In fact, he can't remember – probably on the Valiant, before... before... his thoughts slide away and he sighs in frustration. Before _what_? He hadn't been lying when he'd told Gwen that his memory was still incomplete. Oh, he knows who he is, where he is, and that the Doctor has got it coming to him... but there's a big gap between dying on the Valiant and being beaten to within an inch of his life outside a grotty little pub in London. 'A few days, I think.'

'That long? Well that's probably not helping, for a start. I'll pop out and get you something. Don't suppose you've got any cash, have you?' Gwen is reluctant to leave him in case he suffers another fit, but she can't see any way out of it. Ordering in a pizza is out – too easily traceable. Torchwood would be knocking on the door even before they could finish eating, she's sure.

Saxon shakes his head. 'As I said earlier, I was mugged. All I own is what you see.'

'Right... I might be gone a while, then. You should try to rest. Get out of those clothes.' She makes for the door, but stops, somehow reluctant to leave him lying on his back. What if he has another fit? He might vomit, choke...

'Yes, I probably should...' Saxon's eyes remain shut and he seems reluctant to move.

Gwen sighs inwardly. Why are men always so _pathetic_when they're ill? She crosses the room to the bed, and touches him lightly on the shoulder. She's startled by the wild look in his eyes as they snap open at her touch, and snatches her hand back hurriedly.

'Sorry. I just thought you might want some help undressing...' She trails off, suddenly not so sure that this is a good idea.

'Yes...' He doesn't smile; in fact he seems to be having trouble keeping his eyes open as he pushes himself up into a sitting position with a grunt. Gwen recalls his comment about concussion. Has she done the right thing in breaking him out? Well, it's too late now. She hooks a hand under his elbow, pulling him to his feet so that she can pull the bedclothes back. Sweat beads his brow and Gwen can see his body trembling with the effort of remaining upright.

'Just lie back...' She gently pushes him down - he needs no further persuading and sinks back onto the pillows with a relieved sigh. She lifts his legs up onto the bed, noting as she does so the sorry state of a once smart pair of trousers, which are muddy and stained with what smells suspiciously like vomit, as are both his shirt and jacket. His shoes aren't in much better shape and she pulls those off, dropping them to the floor. She balks at undressing him further, however, and turns back to find him fast asleep, his breathing deep and slow.

_Don't be such a wuss, Gwen,_she scolds herself. _How would you like to wake up wearing clothes covered in puke?_She'd been there a few times and it hadn't been pleasant. The hotel would probably launder them - it'll leave him without clothes, but it doesn't look as if he'll be going anywhere for a good few hours. Gwen wrinkles her nose. He could also do with a shower.

Ignoring the little voice pointing out to her that she should not be in a hotel room removing the Prime Minister's clothing, Gwen deftly removes Saxon's jacket and shirt. She's a dab hand at undressing Rhys when he's had a skin-full and is too smashed to do it himself; Saxon, being of much lighter build, is easier to manipulate, even in his totally unresponsive state. Reaching for his trouser zip, she hesitates. _Oh for God's sake, Gwen, don't be so pathetic; just bloody get on with it! _All the same, she can't help staring as she draws the trousers down, revealing form-fitting black Kelvin Clines which leave little to the imagination. _God, if the girls could see me now..._ Probably just as well they couldn't, really; they would never believe her. _Gwen Cooper, you must be mad._She could lose her job over this – perhaps even be charged with aiding the escape of a wanted man...

Dropping the soiled clothes to the floor and carefully averting her eyes, Gwen rolls Saxon carefully into the recovery position, wincing as she sees for the first time the livid bruises covering much of his torso but particularly his back. He says he was mugged – it looks more like attempted murder to Gwen.

Drawing the covers over him, she switches on the bedside lamp and flicks off the main light. Picking up the keys, she gathers up Saxon's clothes and leaves the room, locking the door behind her.

Back at the Hub, Tosh and Ianto have returned, Weevil in tow, to find Jack in a state of high agitation and Owen hunched over his keyboard, frowning all the while as he flicks from screen to screen.

'Jack? What's going on?' Ianto stops on route to the cells with the subdued weevil. Jack turns haunted eyes to him, runs a hand through his hair distractedly.

'Saxon has kidnapped Gwen.' Jack all but pounces on Tosh as she ditches her coat and makes for her desk.

'Saxon..? _ Harold_Saxon?'

Jack ignores him. 'Tosh, I need you to help Owen go through our CCTV for the cells and all exits from the Hub. Start at about seventeen hundred hours.'

'Of course, Jack.' Tosh is alarmed, and starts to access the cameras straight away. 'I thought he was dead,' she murmurs.

'Yeah, so did I Tosh.' Jack blames himself – he should _never_have left Gwen alone with the Master, especially since she had so obviously come under his spell. He _should_have seen this coming. On top of Martha's having known the Master was back but not telling him, now feelings of guilt and betrayal spin around Jack's head until he wants to punch something or someone – preferably Harold bloody Saxon.

'Gwen's been kidnapped by the _Prime Minister_?' Ianto's eyebrows rise.

'_Ex_-Prime Minister, Ianto - Harold Saxon. If they were giving out awards for the most psychopathic alien, he'd win hands down. We gotta find them, and fast.'

Tosh and Ianto glance at each other, their surprise evident.

'Prime Minister Saxon is an _alien_?' Ianto intones disbelievingly.

'Yep. It's a long story, Ianto, and not one I want to tell right now. Trust me.'

'Whatever happened to him?' Tosh wants to know. 'I thought he disappeared after the President was killed. And his wife, what was her name –'

'Lucy, Cole as was; Lord Cole of Tarminster's daughter.' Ianto supplies helpfully.

'Jack reckons Saxon murdered her, along with the President and his entire bloody cabinet.' Owen informs them tonelessly, his scepticism evident.

'Believe me, he's one _helluva_dangerous guy – I hope you never have to find that out for yourselves. So come on, people – let's get to work!'

'Right then – I'd better get this one put away and get some coffee brewing. Pizza might be a good idea too...' Ianto sees a long night ahead of them.

_'Harry...'_

The Master jerks awake, his pulse racing erratically. 'Lucy...?' Raising his head from the pillow, he looks around, disorientated.

He's laying on a bed, in a room he doesn't recognise – a hotel, he guesses from the bland decor and lack of personal effects. A bedside lamp set into the wall casts a warm glow over the quiet room – he's quite alone. Where is he? He feels cold and confused.

He sits up, realising then that he's been stripped of all clothing save his underwear. _Lucy_? And then he remembers, with a rush of clarity. The hospital - Torchwood – Gwen. Where is she? She went out for food, he recalls, and as if on cue his stomach growls. He needs food and water. Another thought hits him – has he regenerated? He searches his memory. No. He needs... something he can't remember.

He throws back the covers, wincing as his injuries remind him of their presence, and swings his legs to the floor. As he stands, the room suddenly spins wildly around him; his legs give way and he falls back onto the bed. What's wrong with him? He should be over this, now. Quite clearly, though, he isn't. He seems to be dependent on others, all of a sudden, and he doesn't like it at all. He's accustomed to being in control. What the hell is he even doing here? He should be... his memory fails him and he punches the bed in frustration. He has an almost overwhelming urge to smash things but lacks the energy to act on it; something is definitely wrong. He tries to collect his thoughts, assess his situation, but his concentration is skittering all over the place. He has to have a plan of action for...what?

As he thinks, he absently strokes the fingers of his right hand with his left. Suddenly realising what he's doing, he stops, looks at his hands. The ring... there was a ring... wasn't there? He tries to picture it, frowns. Yes, there _was_ a ring, and it was important. He was wearing it when... again, the memory refuses to come and he groans in frustration. He knows the ring is vital for some reason but he no longer has it, can't even recall _why_it's important. He just knows he has to have it.

He lies back, suddenly weary and afraid. Within a few moments he's sweating and shivering, gripped by the fever which has returned with a vengeance.

Time passes; he has no idea how long he lays cocooned within the blankets, alternately sweating and shivering, utterly miserable but too weak to do anything about it.

Gwen drops the bags at her feet and fumbles in her pocket for the keycard. She pushes the door open, retrieves the bags, and steps into the room, pushing the door shut behind her with one foot.

Saxon is moving restlessly on the bed, muttering incoherently. Gwen drops the bags and hurries to the bedside, placing a hand on his forehead. His skin is cold and clammy rather than feverish, to Gwen's consternation. She doesn't fancy spending the night nursing a sick man. She just wants to go home, and cuddle up with Rhys, an option which now seems unlikely.

If the truth be told, she's beginning to regret breaking Saxon out of the Hub – how can she simply go back home and carry on as if nothing has happened? She certainly can't go back to the Hub until they've proved Saxon's innocence. For one thing, Jack and the others will be looking for her. Jack might believe she sprang Saxon willingly, or he might, she suddenly realises, think that she'd been taken hostage and is in danger. She isn't entirely sure which scenario is worse.

She'd also realised as she'd shopped that it could take months to clear Saxon's name. She could maybe go back and claim she doesn't remember what happened – but aside from the fact that she doesn't want to lie to her colleagues, she's sure that somewhere in his impressive collection of drugs Owen will have a truth serum of some sort, which she's sure Jack won't hesitate to use. How can she stay clear of Jack for that long? Tosh's powers of finding people who want to stay hidden are legendary. And what about Rhys – even assuming she dares go home, how will she explain to him why she isn't working for Torchwood any more – she'll have to go back to the Police, she supposes, if they'll have her – but does she want to leave Torchwood for Harold Saxon's sake? She thinks not. Bloody hell, she's only been on the run with Saxon for a few hours and already it feels as if she's been away far too long – she misses her normal life with an ache that's almost physical. What had she been thinking of?

'Lucy...?' Saxon opens his eyes, blinking in confusion. He grabs the hand she'd placed on his forehead and holds it tightly, almost painfully. His hand is ice-cold.

'I'm Gwen - it's okay, Harry. You were dreaming.'

'Was I?' He suddenly shivers. 'I'm - so - cold.'

'You should eat something. Your blood sugar is probably way too low.' Gwen tries to disentangle her hand so that she can fetch the bags she'd dropped just inside the door, but Saxon tightens his grip.

'No ... just ... wait ...please.' He's shivering so violently now that he can barely force the words past clenched jaws. Almost before she knows what she's doing, Gwen finds herself kicking off her shoes and sliding under the duvet beside him.

She tries to fight off the surreal feeling that she has to be dreaming this, as she wraps her arms around the shivering figure and tries to transfer some of her own body heat to the one time Prime Minister of Great Britain. He really is so very cold, she thinks and wonders what the hell she'll do if he doesn't soon recover. She rubs his arms, trying to get some circulation going, but he makes a small sound as if his skin is too sore to tolerate her touch, so she simply hugs him to her, hoping that the warmth of her body will be enough.


	9. Chapter 9

Warning – this chapter contains some adult material but I have toned it down a little from the original (which can be found on my Weebly site if you're that interested! Please PM me for a linky thing if so...) in order to keep within the FanFic ratings. I don't think it has suffered too much – may even be better, in fact!

So, I hope you will enjoy...

**Chapter Eight part two - Flight****  
><strong>  
>Gwen wakes to feel Rhys and his 'morning glory' nudging her buttocks and sighs happily, pushes back against him suggestively. But something about the figure pressed up against her suddenly doesn't feel or smell right, and with dawning horror she realises that she's lying spooned in a bed with Harry Saxon. Why the bloody hell is she in bed with...? She remembers and stifles a groan; she must have dozed off. <em>Bloody hell – how long have I been asleep?<em>

Heart thumping so hard in her chest she's sure Saxon must feel the vibration of it through the mattress, Gwen freezes and her mind works overtime as she tries to decide how to extricate herself without waking him.

_Too late_, she realises as a hand snakes around to cup her breast, the thumb idly circling around it in a way that sends sudden shivers of pleasure to her very core. Shamefully she realises that she's incredibly aroused by Saxon's proximity and by what he's doing with his fingers_. __Oh my God, Gwen, what the hell have you got yourself into? _

Saxon's hand moves up to smooth the hair away from her face.

'You really are a beautiful woman, Gwen,' his voice whispers softly in her ear, his breath warm on the side of her face. Part of Gwen's mind registers that he's no longer shivering and that his body temperature is now on the high side of normal. Especially his...

With a supreme effort, Gwen pulls away, ignoring her body's urgings to do just the opposite. Her mind wants to flee back to the familiar comfort of Rhys, to confess her betrayal to Jack and beg forgiveness. But her traitorous body has different ideas – it wants her to throw itself at Harry Saxon; wants to crawl inside his skin, to open herself up to him, wants to feel him inside her... _Jesus, Gwen - pack it in!_

Saxon reaches up and puts one hand on her shoulder, turning her around to face him, and somehow she can't turn away... He smiles and leans forward, kissing her slowly and thoroughly until she's gasping. Part of her mind shies away from what's happening in horror but she's powerless to act on it and now the fear is fading, replaced by raw need and she's moaning into his mouth, impatient for more.

'Gwen...' he almost groans her name, pushes her back onto the bed until she's flat on her back and he's straddling her. She arches up against him as he begins to undo the buttons of her blouse. When that's done, he scoots back and slowly unzips her jeans, pulling them and her panties down her legs until he's able to pull them off and fling them away. The sensation of cool air on her skin is incredibly arousing and she squirms underneath him, desperate for him to touch her.

'That's _so_ much better, don't you think?' he breathes, his eyes glittering with excitement. Leaning on his elbows, he covers her body with his own, his arousal hot and hard against her stomach even through the KCs. He nuzzles her neck, licking upwards until he's nibbling her earlobe.

Gwen whimpers and finds herself thrusting up against him, her hands reaching around to run her hands down his back, over his arse, tracing the lean shape of him through the fabric. He moans softly, grinding against her until she gasps, 'Please... ' she grabs cotton and pulls, wanting to feel skin. With a sly grin, Saxon sits upright and deftly removes his underwear, holding her gaze the whole time before slowly lowering himself onto her. The sensation of his skin, cool and smooth against her own, is almost more than she can bear. 'Please...'

He chuckles and slides into her, licking and biting and kissing every inch of her face and neck. Gwen whimpers - she knows she isn't going to last much longer... Saxon rolls his hips against her, his thrusts becoming faster and more frenzied, his breath catching in his throat as he grunts above her. His sweat drips onto her face and lips and she licks at the drops hungrily. He tastes sweet and sharp, entirely unlike... Gasping, she opens her eyes to see his velvet eyes boring into hers. She wants to lose herself in those eyes and never emerge... she wants... she feels herself spasm around him and cries out, feels his answering release within her. She thinks she might just die of happiness...'Harry...'

With an answering groan Saxon falls onto her, shuddering violently. It takes Gwen a second or two to realise that he'd collapsed not with the exhaustion of passion but because he is in severe pain. He rolls away from her and into a foetal position, gasping and clutching at the left side of his chest. Gwen scrambles to her knees, a distant part of her mind aware that his issue is settling inside her with an uncomfortable chill rather than following the laws of gravity, but the thought fades as she leans over to see his face contorted in agony.

'Harry, what's wrong?' Christ - what had they been thinking? He's got concussion and cracked ribs, for God's sake! Gwen suddenly wonders how he'd even been able to perform as he had with that level of injury.

'Heart – ' he gasps.

Is he having a bloody _heart attack_? Gwen curses. If she calls an ambulance, it's inevitable that he'll end up in the hands of the police. If she doesn't, he could die. She looks around for her mobile.

Saxon grabs her wrist and squeezes her hand into a fist, his grip surprisingly strong. 'Punch - me! Here –' and he pulls her hand over to the left side of his chest.

'What? Your ribs! -' Only too aware that every second could count, Gwen can't understand what he's trying to say to her.

He snarls in frustration and pain and grabs her hand again, slamming it down onto his chest.

'Heart – it's there! Do it – now!' he groans through teeth gritted with pain. '_Gwen..._!'

With alarm she sees his eyes start to roll back in his head, and does as she's told.

He coughs but does not seem to be able to draw breath properly.

'Harder!' His voice is faltering, growing weak; his lips are turning blue.

She puts everything she has into the next punch, tears streaming down her face.

'Come on, damn you!'

He draws a huge shuddering breath and gulps air. Gwen raises her hand to strike him again but he grabs her wrist and pulls it down.

'Enough!' He gasps, and passes out.

'Shit!' Gwen leans over him, desperate to feel a breath. Yes! Thank God, he's still breathing! Reaction suddenly kicks in and Gwen is shaking and sobbing as the adrenalin overloads her body. The sweat of their exertions is cooling on her skin and she suddenly feels cold from the inside out. Grabbing up the duvet and wrapping it around herself she sits on the bed, hugging herself and rocking back and forth in shock.

'Oh my god, oh my god...'

*

Eventually Gwen's hysteria subsides, and she's able to assess Saxon's condition with something that is nearly, if not quite, calm.

She can see that he's still breathing; perhaps not evenly, but it will do for now. His lips are no longer blue, so that's an improvement, at least. She can see his pulse fluttering at his throat; it seems awfully fast. Putting an ear to his chest in the normal place, she remembers and is about to put her ear to the opposite side, but stops as she hears the familiar lub-dub, lub-dub. His heart _is_ on the correct side, of course it is. So why...? Feeling stupid, Gwen places her ear on the other side, and draws a sharp breath. Lub-lub, lub-dub, lub-dub. Feeling as though she's in a bizarre nightmare, again she places her ear on the left... lub-dub, lub-dub. Christ – he's got _two_ hearts! And they seem to be beating at different rates, which explains why the pulse at his throat looks as if it's racing. There's Gwen's proof, she supposes, that Harry Saxon is not human after all. She shivers. _I just had sex with an alien... _ There's a moment of fear and then the calm certainty that everything will be all right... she shakes her head, mystified but no longer troubled, and continues her assessment of Saxon's condition. How could he have been so ill last night, and capable of - she blushes – such an athletic performance only hours later?

But Saxon seems to be comfortable enough for the moment so she covers him with the duvet and leaves him to sleep. When he wakes _(if_ he wakes) she'll insist that he eat something. If he's been living rough (and the state of his clothes and the leanness of his body testifies that he probably has), no wonder he seems so ill. Human or alien, males are all the ruddy same, Gwen thinks ruefully. They think with their balls and not their brains half the time. _That's probably what got him into trouble in the first place_. Gwen recalls hearing that Lucy had shot him, but in all the confusion afterwards she isn't sure whether it was pure tabloid sensationalism or if that's what had really happened. But what _had _happened to Lucy? Saxon seems to think that someone killed her, while Jack thinks Saxon did it... which reminds her that people will now be looking for them. Suddenly the motel doesn't seem such a safe place to hide...

Flinging her clothes back on, she retrieves the bags from where she'd dropped them earlier, and takes out the clothes she'd hurriedly picked for him. The hotel laundry service would have Saxon's suit back by mid-morning (Gwen had ditched the shirt since it was covered in blood and had a hole in the front as well) but Gwen had been thinking as she'd selected the sandwiches; Harry is too recognisable; or at least he would be once he was smartened up and his bruises heal. So Gwen had decided that a change of image might go some way towards disguising him.

And now, Gwen realises, she could use a shower.

*

Jack, Owen, Tosh and Ianto watch the footage in silence. Owen, Tosh and Ianto's astonishment at Gwen's behaviour is obvious. Only Jack is unsurprised; Saxon's memory has obviously returned (if he had ever had amnesia in the first place). The Doctor had told him about the Master's penchant for the hypnotic arts. The Archangel network had been an impressive upgrade of that skill; but even without it, it's now obvious that he still has the ability to delude people. Jack also knows that the minute Gwen is no longer useful to the Master her life will be in danger. Its likely she will be unaware of this right up until it happens, but then – and Jack shudders – he has no doubt that the Master will extract maximum entertainment and pleasure from Gwen's demise.

'Why would she do that?' Tosh is astounded. 'If what you say about Saxon is true, Jack, then it doesn't make any sense.'

'She's not responsible for her actions, Tosh – Saxon has a rather hypnotic way about him. As you'll find out if you ever meet him. As I keep telling you, he's a very dangerous man.'

'But you said he's not human,' Ianto points out.

'He isn't. He's from a planet called Gallifrey, which no longer exists.'

'Jack, he's half-human according to the tests I ran.' Owen reminds him.

'Then something's changed. According to the Doctor, they're both from Gallifrey. I don't ever remembering him mentioning either of them being half – human. Unless he forgot to mention it...'

'Is this Doctor the bloke you mentioned earlier?'

'Yep.' Jack turns to Tosh. 'Have you found Gwen's car yet?'

Tosh opens a new window on her screen.

'No, it hasn't – oh. Yes – it turned up in the Tesco car park on Cowbridge Road at... a little after six. It's still there right now – the program should alert me when the car moves but you might want to get down there. '

'Who was driving?'

Tosh squints at the grainy image. 'As far as I can tell, Gwen was on her own.'

'What the hell is she playing at?' Owen wonders.

'Let's find out.' Jack has already grabbed his coat. 'Owen, with me. Tosh - let me know if she moves. I need you and Ianto to see if you can find out where else she's been since they left here.'

'We're onto it.'

*

Gwen steps out of the shower, glad that she'd thought to buy a change of clothes for herself. She hadn't planned on being away for more than the few hours it should have taken to get Saxon hidden somewhere safe. In fact she hadn't bloody planned anything at all really, and now wishes she'd never let him talk her into it. But since he did...she just hopes that he'll be up to travelling come the morning.

As she'd showered, Gwen's imagination had been working overtime, and she'd realised how flawed her hastily concocted escape plan was. For one thing, unless Harry could lay his hands on some cash, they were in for a miserable time – Gwen doesn't think that living rough, as he had been doing, will help them get to the truth of the murders.

She realises, too, that if they stay in Cardiff it will only be a matter of time before Tosh picks them up on CCTV. Since the Cabinet members had been murdered in London, Gwen knows that going there has to be their best bet. Tosh's tracking skills would eventually find them, but London would be easier to hide in than Cardiff.

Quite how they're going to set about proving anything, though, might be a real problem. Harry is certainly persona non grata at all the places they are likely to find anything of use, and Gwen knows that she'll be in the same boat once Torchwood realise what's going on – which might already be the case, since viewing the Hub CCTV footage will be the first thing Jack will get Tosh to do. If only she could get Torchwood on side. Again Gwen regrets allowing herself to be talked into this and sighs. She enters the bedroom to find Harry stirring.

'What happened? Are you alright?'

He sits up and runs a shaking hand through hair stiff with dried sweat.

'I think I rather overdid it... '

'Overdid it my foot - Your heart bloody stopped! And how come you have two hearts anyway?'

Saxon gets unsteadily to his feet and pulls Gwen into an awkward hug. 'That really doesn't matter right now, Gwen. What _is_important is that you saved my life. So come here and let me thank you properly... ' He kisses the tip of her nose tenderly. 'Thank you, Gwen.' He looks searchingly into her eyes.

Gwen isn't totally mollified, but somehow the question of Harry's hearts doesn't seem important all of a sudden.

'Look, will you just – _please_ – eat something before you collapse again?' Gwen sighs in exasperation as he sways on his feet. He nods, looks around the room. 'Where are my clothes?'

'They're being laundered. But I've been thinking - If we're going to try to clear your name, you've got to stay out of sight; not draw attention to yourself while we do some digging around. You're a public figure, so we need to try and disguise you as best we can. I've bought a few things that might help. But you should eat first. And shower.' She wrinkles her nose none too tactfully. Funny that she didn't notice that when they...

Saxon smiles and in spite of herself, Gwen's stomach does a flip-flop. _Down, girl!_

'You've thought of everything, haven't you?' He sits back down on the bed as his legs threaten to give way.

'Well, you weren't being a lot of help; someone had to get things organised.' Gwen busies herself searching through the bags and pulls out sandwiches.

The Master regards Gwen with a thoughtful expression. She has a point. What's the matter with him? He can't remember, and swallows sudden fear. What is happening to him?

Gwen hands him a couple of packs of chicken sandwiches and a can of Red Bull. 'This isn't exactly a square meal, but it _is_protein and carbohydrates, and the drink will boost your sugar levels.' She smiles at him. 'Hope you're not vegetarian or diabetic!'

Saxon lifts an eyebrow in amusement, and falls on the food as if he hasn't eaten for a week. Perhaps he hadn't, Gwen thinks and takes a sandwich for herself.

As they eat, Gwen explains her plans to disguise him and how she thinks they should travel to London incognito.

To her surprise he doesn't seem overly enthusiastic about the idea.

'I'm rather hoping an old acquaintance will turn up here before too long.'

'Who's that then?'

'It's better that you don't know. Safer for you, Gwen.'

'I can take care of myself, you know!' Gwen is indignant.

'I'm quite sure that's the case. But you don't know him – I do. ' Saxon levers himself out of the chair, ruffles her hair as he walks towards the bathroom. He seems steadier now, Gwen notes with relief.

'And you're so right - I really do need a shower.' He stops, turning back with a sly grin. 'Care to join me?' Gwen's gaze drops downwards and she blushes. No doubt about what's on _his_ mind, then... It seems that some of the racier stories she'd heard about him were true... Heart thumping and trying to ignore the niggling thought at the back of her mind which is warning her that this isn't her best ever idea – after all, she _is_ a married woman- she takes Saxon's outstretched hand.

*

Jack slams a hand on the steering wheel in frustration. 'Damn - Tosh, she's not here! How come you missed her?' He brakes, kills the engine. He and Owen pace the car park – there aren't many cars parked there now and none of them belong to Gwen.

'I don't know, Jack – the system should have alerted me the second that registration plate left the car park. According to this, it should still be there.'

'Jack – over here.' Owen is standing behind a non-descript saloon. He points to the registration plate. 'That's Gwen's. '

'Oh, she's cute! Tosh – backtrack on the CCTV – see if you can get a shot of the plates being switched.' Jack and Owen hurry back to the SUV.

*

In the humid warmth of the shower, Gwen runs her fingers gently through Saxon's hair, careful not to catch the wound on the back of his head. It still seems to bother him a little, even though it's started to heal. She's shocked at how thin he is; his ribs stand out in stark relief against his pale skin and his torso is a mass of livid bruises. Someone has really done a number on him. The policewoman in Gwen toys briefly with the idea of getting a description of the muggers, before Saxon's stroking fingers drive all coherent thought from her mind.

Her fingers trace around the tiny pink scar on his lower left abdomen. Saxon draws a shuddering breath and pulls her into a tight embrace. He pushes one leg between her thighs and she sighs, laying her head against his shoulder, inhaling his unique scent, sharp and sweet and musky all at the same time. He runs his hands over her face, gently, then down her shoulders, sliding down to fondle her breasts, his thumbs circling, rubbing. Just when she thinks she can stand it no more, his hands move down and around to cup her arse. Again his fingers continue their circling and rubbing motion, until she pushes herself against him desperately. With an incoherent groan, he rolls his hips against her, his erection hot and hard. He thrusts into her, and she can feel herself losing control. 'Oh, not yet, please, not yet!'

With a low chuckle which seems to vibrate through Gwen's body, Saxon's mouth covers hers and his hands come up to her head, his fingertips brushing her temples. Suddenly it's as if he's in her mind, showing her images of how she looks through his eyes and impossibly time is slowing down so that everything feels as though it's happening in slow motion. The pleasure is almost unbearable, yet somehow she's held on the brink. It's wonderful and painful all at the same time.

'Oh – my – God –' She gasps, torn between laughing and crying with the sheer delight of it.

'Harry will do just fine,' he murmurs silkily in her ear. 'Are you ready to come, Gwen?'

Gwen is ready, more than ready – she can feel her own sensations amplified back at her, and his own; urgent, excited to the point of no return, throbbing against her mind and in her body at the same time. She's hyperventilating; the room is spinning around her. 'Harry...'

'Yessss... ' He intones breathlessly, thrusting desperately against her – one hand supporting them against the shower wall, the other splayed against her back, holding her to him, stopping her from falling. He convulses against her, thrusting rhythmically until he's spent.

Saxon leans his head on her shoulder, panting as Gwen sags equally breathlessly in his arms; her whole body is trembling. She laughs almost hysterically as he steps from the shower stall, holding her tightly as if realising that she'll fall if he lets go of her.

He leads them both to the bed, where they fall, a tangle of wet limbs.

'How the bloody hell did you _do_ that?' Gwen laughs, still breathless.

Saxon laughs; a deep, rich sound that makes her insides curl deliciously.

'I have absolutely no idea.'

'Well let me tell you, mister: that was the best – and I mean _the_ best – fuck I've ever had...' She snuggles her head under his chin, closing her eyes in exhaustion.

The Master grins above her head, a wide, self satisfied smirk. 'Good... because there's plenty more where that came from...' He suddenly feels alive; better than he has done for quite a while. He runs his hands over Gwen's breasts and down her stomach, dips down between her legs and feels his own answering response.

But Gwen is asleep. The Master groans in frustration. Damn these humans and their ridiculous urge to sleep after the least little exertion! He supposes that he had better find something else to amuse him until Gwen wakes. He paces, trying to ignore his body's urge to take her anyway, knowing that he may still need her help and it will be easier if he has her goodwill too., he leaves her to sleep and roams the room restlessly, one hand idly gripping himself as he tries to relieve the tension. Pacing past the bathroom, he catches a glimpse of his own reflection. The livid bruising on his body momentarily distracts him from his other discomfort and he steps up to the mirror to take stock of the damage.

*


	10. Chapter 10

_Author's note: Many thanks to GuessWho, Brownbug and Just Me who kindly left reviews for the last few chapters. I hope the last one wasn't too harrowing for you, 'cause I'm afraid this one may be even more so (please see warning below)... I make no apology though, because one of my aims when I originally wrote this was to try and get a handle on just how bad the Master is; and that he may not be as fully in control of his actions as he believes! There is an explanation, of course; but for now, on with the story! _

**Chapter Ten : Rescue.'**

**Warning - this chapter contains scenes of violent, non-consensual sex. Please do not read further if this is likely to offend you.**

Martha dials Jack's number as she hurries to her car, the memory of her mother's haunted expression tightening her throat. All she's told Francine is that she has urgent business in Cardiff – but Francine is no fool. Somehow she knows it's much more than that – she knows her daughter only too well. Equally, Francine knows that once Martha has made up her mind, she might just as well shout at the moon. So all Francine had said to her daughter on parting was, 'Be safe. Come back to us, Martha – please.' She hadn't wanted to know what was so urgent that Martha had to drop everything so soon after promising to stay with them after the terrible events of the Year That Never Was. As they'd hugged in farewell, Martha had thought of all the things she wanted to say but dare not. It was too soon after everything that had happened – she doesn't want to tell her family that Saxon is on the loose again, doesn't want to see their naked fear. Its better they don't know...

'Jack? Martha. No, I haven't been able to get hold of him yet. How should_ I_know? You know what he's like! What? He – how? Look - I'll be with you in a couple of hours, I hope. I'll try ringing the Doctor again now. See you soon.'

Martha tries again to reach the Doctor. Again it goes through to voicemail. If he doesn't pick up soon, the voicemail folder will be full. _Come on, Doctor – where __are__ you?_

'Doctor? It's Martha – where are you? We need you – the Master has escaped from Torchwood – long story - and he's taken Gwen hostage! I'm on my way to Cardiff now, so when you get this message, please, please get here as fast as you can!'

The Doctor has been ignoring Martha's mobile – it's been buzzing away in his pocket for ages; and although he feels bad about it, in all honesty he's not in a position to act on whatever problem Martha might have right now. So best not to even listen to her message, because it'll just distract him from the problem he's already dealing with – which could mean the difference between life and death for a rather large number of people. So he sends a silent apology to Martha and continues up the ruined stairwell.

Gwen wakes with a start as a hand clamps itself over her mouth, and gives a muffled shout of surprise.

'Shit! Oh – it's you! I thought you were a flippin' rapist or something – I didn't recognise you!' She pushes Saxon's hand away, heart hammering in her chest as she twists head to blink blearily at him. Beside her, the Master leans back and grins wolfishly.

'That can be arranged...' His eyes glitter as he looks her up and down, reaches out to stroke a breast.

Gwen scowls, suddenly perturbed. 'That's not remotely funny. Don't even joke about it.'

She sits up, rubbing the sleep from her eyes as she takes in Saxon's new appearance. With white blond hair gelled into spikes and wearing the fashionably scruffy blue jeans, trainers and a black hooded sweatshirt she'd bought the night before, he looks ridiculously young - it seems impossible that he could ever have been Prime Minister of Great Britain. Gwen is impressed.

'You look so _different_– gave me a fright, you did.' She swings her legs out of bed.'What time is it?' With her back to him, Gwen doesn't see Saxon's expression harden. He grabs her shoulders and violently pushes her back down onto the bed.

'It's time for some more of this, Gwen...' His hand dives between her legs and she gasps, half laughing.

'You're insatiable, you are! Pack it in, I need the-'

Saxon's mouth crushes hers and her eyes widen first in surprise, then annoyance. She struggles, irritation turning suddenly to real annoyance as he growls, holding her arms above her head and grinding his body against hers, his arousal obvious.

'Stop it - don't!' she gasps, the first tendrils of fear creeping into her voice as he ignores her, the strength of his grip starting to really hurt.

He whips one hand from her wrist and slaps her face, hard. 'Don't _ever_tell me what to do!'

Gwen gapes at him in shock.

He fumbles one-handed with his jeans, frees himself and brutally thrusts into her. She gasps in pain. Then anger kicks in, and she bucks wildly beneath him, trying to throw him off.

'That's it, Gwen – that's _good!_' He laughs, excited by her struggles, and thrusts harder, his eyes dark pools of lust and madness as he pounds into her.

'You – mad - bastard – how _dare_you!' Gwen cries angrily, and spits in his face.

He stills, then groans and renews his frantic thrusting, his eyes wild.

'I dare, Gwen, because –' he draws a shuddering breath, speaks in time with his thrusts. 'I - am - your - Master! Say - it!'

'What? Oh my God, get off me, you –' _He's mad, totally insane!_

His moves one hand and grips it hand tightly around her throat and Gwen begins to choke, desperate for air. Her free hand grabs at his hair and pulls, which she realises in despair only seems to excite him more.

'Say it! Go on! Say it - _you – are - my - Master_...' he's mad and desperate and as her vision begins to darken Gwen knows she'll die if she doesn't do as he wants. What are words, after all...?

'You-' she can barely speak and Saxon suddenly seems to realise this, releasing the pressure on her throat. She coughs, drawing in a huge lungful of air.

'Say it, Gwen!' and his hand tightens, relaxes.

Gwen sobs. 'You –are –'

'SAY IT!' He snarls, and continues to thrust, sweat running down his face. His expression is contorted – his eyes slits of dark malice and lust, teeth gritted as his climax approaches.

'My – Master –'

Saxon shudders against her, groaning softly as Gwen sobs in humiliation. Finally spent, he gasps and sags momentarily against her and Gwen sees her chance. She twists and kicks. Wrenching one hand free, she rakes her nails across his face, aiming for his eyes. She misses, but draws blood across his cheek. He's surprised and she manages to wriggle out from under him. She falls off the bed, gasping in fear and anger and dives for the bathroom. Flinging herself back against the door and flicking the lock with shaking hands, she collapses against it, gasping in fright. She braces herself, expecting the door to come crashing in on her, but it doesn't happen.

'Oh – my - God...' She wants to throw up. The Bastard had raped her. He'd _raped_ her! Why – when she'd been glad enough to... Gwen swallows as she recalls in vivid detail exactly what they had done just a few hours before, and how much she'd enjoyed it. How _could_ she have done this? Not that Saxon wasn't fit – that much hadn't ever been in dispute. It was the ease with which she had betrayed everything dear to her – Torchwood, Jack – and Rhys. Rhys – how could she ever look him in the eye, after this? This was one secret, one betrayal too far. Gwen chokes back a sob. She's got to stay focussed, in case he comes in after her. _Calm down, Gwen. Think_. If he comes in now, I'll... Gwen has visions of running naked into the street and knows that if that's what it takes...but the door stays closed, and slowly her panicked breathing eases, although she continues to shake like a leaf.

How had Saxon persuaded her to break him out of the Hub? Had he hypnotised her? Gwen struggles to remember exactly how she could ever have thought that it was a good idea – it goes totally against her character. How had Saxon managed it? She doesn't know; but she can't deny that it did happen, however surreal it now seems to her. She wants to shower every last trace of him off her, she wants to go wants to run far away from Harold Saxon - as far away as she possibly can. She ignores the sick feeling that accompanies recollections of each time he'd touched her - and suddenly wonders if his close physical proximity had amplified some sort of hypnotic power. She recalls Jack warning them all that Saxon is dangerous, and suddenly begins to understand. Suddenly remembering how Saxon had entered her mind, a terrifying thought occurs to Gwen – does it mean that he can read her thoughts? She stares at the door, wonders what is happening beyond it...

Perhaps she can bluff it out; go back in there, get dressed and make her escape once they leave the building. But surely it's gone too far for that; she'd attacked him. Will he let that go unpunished? What if he decides he can't take the risk that she'll talk? She gulps. And if Saxon did murder his Ministers – and somehow that now seems all too possible - will he have any hesitation in killing her? Somehow she doesn't think so, not after this. But why didn't he dump her the minute she got him out of the Hub? Probably because he was sick and weak and needed her help, Gwen realises, and curses herself for a gullible fool. But he'd seemed fine only moments ago; quite chipper in fact. Either it had all been a very convincing act, or he's made a remarkable recovery. She thinks of Jack, and his inability to die, and another thought strikes her – what if Jack and the Master are from the same planet? She has never asked Jack outright if he is human – what if he isn't? But Jack, although he can be hard, has never behaved like that...lord knows she'd given him ample opportunity to make a move on her, but although he'd looked long and hard, he had never acted on the attraction Gwen feels sure is there...

Gwen wraps herself in a towel and sits miserably on the side of the bath, unable to decide what she should do next and waiting for Saxon to kick the door down and finish her off. For fifteen long minutes she waits and curses her own stupidity. Talk about men thinking with their balls.. well,.she'd been a right push over, hadn't she? She tries to slow her heartbeat, listens for any sound from the other room, expecting the door to explode inwards at any second. Nothing happens, and still there is no sound from the other room. Is he simply waiting on the other side of the door for her to come out? She shivers and waits some more.

A suspicion grows in her mind and the tension of not knowing builds until she wants to scream. She can't sit here like this all day, waiting for him to come in and ... better to get it over with than this unbearable suspense! What she will say or do if he _is_still here, Gwen has no idea. She takes a deep breath and opens the bathroom door.

But the room is deserted. Fighting the urge to laugh hysterically, Gwen heaves a shaky sigh of relief. She knows even before she's looked that her mobile and car keys have gone. Additionally, the hotel phone has been ripped out of its socket. He's probably taken the last of her cash too, the bastard! How _could_ she have been so completely taken in by him? He _must _have hypnotised her somehow, he must have. The alternative doesn't bear thinking about.

What Gwen hadn't anticipated is that Saxon would take her clothes; they're nowhere in sight, and after two circuits of the room she realises that he's stranded her to buy him getaway time. With no mobile and nothing to wear, Gwen is going to have to brave reception. As she opens the door she sighs with relief as a maid walks by.

'Excuse me?'

The maid looks at her, taking in her distressed state. 'Are you alright, Miss?'

'No, no – I'm not. It's a bit embarrassing, actually...' Gwen swallows, hating the lie. 'My boyfriend and I had a big argument and he's buggered- sorry, he's cleared off , but he's taken my purse and my clothes... and the phone in our room isn't working. I wonder – would you mind letting me into one of the other rooms so that I can make a quick call? A friend of mine will bring me some clothes and some cash to pay for the room...'

'But of course, my lovely. Are you quite sure you're all right? You seem a bit...'

'Yes, yes, I'm fine, thanks, I'm just a bit upset... you know... thanks so much. I really appreciate it.' Gwen slips into the empty room which the maid opens for her, and makes for the phone.

'Jack – it's Gwen.' Her calm finally deserts her as she hears Jack's concerned tones.

Several miles away, Jack's expression shows alarm. 'Gwen? Are you okay? Where are you? Hey – calm down, calm down. Just tell me where you are. No – it's alright. Don't – Gwen, take a deep breath. Come on now – that's it. Don't go all hysterical on me... attagirl. Look – whatever you did, it's not your fault, okay? What's the name of the place? Okay, I got it. Just sit tight. I'll be right there. What? You need what? Ok – I'll get Tosh to get them from your locker and I'll be with you as soon as I can. Gwen – stay calm for me, okay?'

Jack puts the phone down, slams a fist on the table. 'Dammit!'

Taking a couple of very deep breaths, he opens his office door. Tosh looks up blearily, her eyes bloodshot from reviewing hour after hour of grainy CCTV footage.

'Jack?' Her tone is concerned.

Jack nods grimly. 'Gwen's safe.' At Tosh's expression of delight, Jack holds up a hand. 'But the bastard raped her - took her clothes, car and mobile. So I need some clothes for her, if you have them.'

'I'll come with you –' Tosh gets to her feet.

Jack shakes his head. 'I need you to stay on the CCTV, Tosh. Only now you're just looking for Saxon. Last known location is the M4 Travelodge at Pontyclun.'

Tosh opens her mouth to argue, but seeing Jack's thunderous expressions just nods wordlessly and hurries away to find some clothes for Gwen.

Thirty-five minutes later (he'd floored it) Jack knocks on the door of Gwen's room; he can see it's on the latch but thinks better of barging in; he'd stopped at reception and improvised, explaining that Mrs Jones had asked him to bring her business suit as she'd been called to a meeting and it was quicker than going home to change. He doesn't like the glint in the clerks' eye but can't be bothered to explain further; let them think what they will.

'Gwen?' he calls softly and slowly pushes the door open.

'Jack!' Gwen is sitting on the edge of the bed, wrapped in a duvet. She's shivering and her face is the very picture of misery. In a few strides, Jack is beside her, gathering her into a comforting embrace as she bursts into tears.

'Hey, easy, Gwen. You're safe now.' Jack is worried – Gwen is a strong woman but with a sensitive heart - which is both her strength and her weakness. The desire to pound seven kinds of shit out of the Master all but overwhelms him and he takes a deep breath to calm himself. Gwen doesn't need to deal with his emotions; she has enough trauma of her own to cope with.

'Jack – I'm so sorry, I don't know what I was thinking! Why the bloody hell did I do it? I can't believe what I – and he –'she chokes back heaving sobs, tears streaming down her face.

'Sshhh... you don't have to explain _anything_ to me Gwen. ' Jack strokes the hair from her face tenderly. 'As I said before, I_ know_ what Saxon is capable of. Did he – hurt you in any other way?' _Stupid question, Jack_, he reproaches himself the minute the words leave his lips and he hears Gwen's choked sob.

'Oh my God, Jack – he – I was so sure he was right and you were wrong and I helped him and he...' Gwen burns with the shame of it. 'And I bloody_ let_him, Jack! In fact I even enjoyed it! What kind of a person does that make me, tell me that?'

She pounds her fists against Jack's chest in despair. Jack draws her back to him in a fierce hug and speaks firmly over the top of her head.

'What it _makes_ you, Gwen, is a normal human being who fell foul of a sociopathic bastard who will use _any_means to get what he wants, when he wants it, without any thought for the people he uses. Believe me, you weren't the first, and you probably won't be the last. I need to find him and stop him. Permanently.'

Gwen pulls away from him. 'Oh no – Jack, no – let the law take care of him, please!'

Jack's expression is grim. 'They wouldn't stand a chance against him, Gwen. Even without weapons, he's extremely dangerous. I know another guy from the same planet - they're like chalk and cheese, but believe me, you wouldn't want to mess with _him_, either. He's the only person I know who might outwit Saxon; but if he doesn't show up soon, I'm going to have to do the best I can. If I have to take Saxon out myself, I will.' He pauses. 'I'm probably the only person who is safe from him.'

Gwen sniffs, wipes her face and her nose with a corner of the duvet. 'Don't become a monster like him, Jack, please. Let the authorities deal with it, I'm begging you...'

'I can't do that Gwen. We can't let the truth get out – can you imagine the result if it becomes common knowledge that the last Prime Minister was an alien?' He gently lets go of her and stands, picking up and handing to Gwen the bag of clothes which Tosh had given him earlier. 'I'll wait outside.'

'No – stay here, Jack, please. I'll use the bathroom.' Gwen takes the bag, wraps the duvet tightly around herself and goes into the bathroom, locking the door behind her. Jack hears her renewed sobs once she's alone and wishes there was something he could say. He's let her down badly and doesn't quite know how he'll ever forgive himself for what happened.

He paces around the room, noting the discarded garment labels, the empty box which once contained a hair colorant kit. So, Mr Saxon has a new image, does he? What the hell is he up to now?

The Master is experiencing a moment of indecision. Having purchased and eaten some rather appalling sandwiches from the filling station's small shop, he realises that he has no clear idea about what to do or where to go next. He's parked up in the farthest reaches of Cardiff Gate Car Park while he considers the options open to him; with only the cash he'd stolen from Gwen, her car – which he will have to ditch very soon before its recognised – and the clothes he's wearing, those options suddenly begin to seem very limited indeed.

He knows that he has to find the Doctor – not only is he (or to be more precise, his TARDIS) the only way off this wretched planet, but he needs the Doctor's input on something rather more serious... Absently, he touches the ring finger of his right hand and feels a mild surprise that there is no ring. When did he lose that?

The Master knows that this body is not behaving as it should. For one thing, there's still a huge gap in his memory between being shot by Lucy and waking up in the alleyway outside the pub. For another, he still feels like death warmed up. He'd felt great earlier; full of energy and life after waking up with Gwen beside him, as evidenced by his interest in matters sexual. He'd supposed that his DNA must have somehow overridden his desire not to regenerate and had still done so after being shot; but if that was the case, why did he still have the same body as before? That _shouldn't_have happened. Was it an incomplete regeneration? He'd heard of this – it could happen if a Time Lord was taken by surprise and didn't have time to prepare mentally for the change. Such regenerations were said to be unstable and careful monitoring by a medical team was usually needed to avoid total degeneration and ensure a subsequent and successful regeneration. That must be it, mustn't it?

His hearts aren't working at full capacity, either – he's pretty sure that one of them is working only intermittently. and for much of the period between waking up in the alleyway and now it hasn't been working at all; the other had also failed momentarily after his first little interaction with Gwen. It had probably not been the wisest thing to do, in hindsight, but for some reason this body seems rather virile; and the idea that it would annoy the Doctor had also been rather pleasing... most importantly he had learned from his time as Lucy's 'husband' that sex is a useful tool with which to bind a human female to his will. But it seems that he may have underestimated Gwen Cooper. A shame – she's a feisty character and would have been a welcome diversion from the tedium of waiting for the Doctor to reappear...

His chest still aches where the cracked ribs are slowly healing (faster than humans but still too slowly for a Time Lord) and where Gwen had thumped him to kick-start his heart; he suddenly worries that if it fails again whilst he is alone, and if his regenerative capabilities _have_somehow been compromised, he could be in big trouble. He begins to regret his treatment of Gwen. His self control had deserted him, which is another worry. The other worry is the drums – they're still present, but after his collapse in MI5 custody, they've been unusually muffled. Its not that he misses them, exactly – Rassilon knows, he's been desperate to get rid of them for longer than he can remember – but he doesn't know why this should be so, and it worries him that he doesn't know.

But perhaps the most frightening thing of all is that he can no longer seem to think clearly, or to make coherent plans to better his situation. His mind, normally razor sharp, feels as though it is being smothered; he feels almost permanently confused and the unfamiliar sensations frighten him. Is this Lucy's DNA over-riding his? Is this what it's like to be human? No wonder they seek distraction with such single minded intensity...

He also feels permanently exhausted, which is another new and very unwelcome symptom. Normally he can operate on very little sleep and is able to extract the maximum nutritional value from any food source available. Now – well, he feels weak and hungry all the time; and always the damn headache with its accompanying –if muffled - drumbeat, is never far below the surface of his mind, threatening to overwhelm him should he let his guard down. If only he could get a good night's sleep and wake refreshed... his eyes slide shut.

Gwen emerges from the bathroom, still feeling as if she's living a waking nightmare. What is she to say to Rhys? _Omigod, Rhys_- 'Jack! Saxon's got my mobile! It's got all my numbers, everything, in it. If he gets into that...' Gwen has a sudden fear that Saxon might get his revenge on Gwen by attacking Rhys.

'Oh he will, you can bet on it. I'll have Tosh put a lock on it. Whether that will work, I don't know, but if he does use it then at least we should be able to track him down.'

'Jack, what if he gets to Rhys...?' How Saxon would know who Rhys is Gwen isn't sure, but she's sure he could take an educated guess.

'I hear what you're saying and we'll keep an eye on him. But I don't think Saxon would be that stupid. He'd guess we'd think of that.' In fact Jack isn't sure of anything where Saxon is concerned, but he doesn't tell Gwen this.

They leave the Travelodge via a rear fire exit.

'Gwen, I want Owen to check you over when we get back to the Hub.' Jack tells her as they speed back towards central Cardiff. Once in the familiar surroundings of the SUV, Gwen seems to perk up a little.

'I'm okay now, Jack, really – it was just the shock. The worst part is that while he was close, I fancied him something rotten. I can't believe it... how am I ever going to face Rhys?'  
>'Gwen, listen to me - Saxon <em>raped<em> you, pure and simple. He may not have used physical violence to start with, but he violated your mind to get what he wanted; it still counts as assault. Just because you _thought _you wanted it doesn't mean you were a willing participant. Just remember that. Want me to speak to Rhys?'

The thought of Jack telling Rhys that another man has raped his fiancée is mortifying. 'I don't think so Jack, but thanks.' Now Gwen understands exactly how rape victims really feel. The sense of violation is overwhelming, and so is the feeling that you should have been able to stop it, somehow. She shakes her head. No point dwelling on' if only'.

'Okay. But if you change your mind...'

Gwen gulps and nods. She doesn't trust herself to say anything else.


	11. Chapter 11

The Master Chronicles – 'Pursuit'

The Master wakes with a start. What's that irritating noise? He blinks sleep from his eyes, groggily taking in his surroundings, and realises that the sound is coming from Gwen's mobile phone.

By the time he's located the small device (it had fallen from his pocket and is under the driver's seat) it's stopped trilling, but an intermittent beep tells him that someone has left a message. He flips the lid open, finds the voicemail function and puts it to his ear.

'Hiya sweetheart – me and my mornin' glory missed you... a phone call would've been nice, just to let me know you were doing an all-nighter... I'm off to work now. Give us a call when you get a minute. Love you.' The sound of someone blowing a kiss follows, and the Master raises an eyebrow, looking at the sender's tag. 'Love you too, _Rhys_...' he mutters, flipping the phone shut. A thought occurs to him and he flips it open again, quickly scrolling down the stored numbers before snapping it shut again. No Doctor – too much to hope for. But a 'Martha J' is listed. The Master's heart beats faster as he slips the mobile into the pocket of his hoody. Now things are starting to look up! But first he needs to eat again; he can't think straight...

Adam wakes, feeling stiff necked and thirsty, as Gregson pull the car off the motorway and into Cardiff Gate Services. Time for breakfast and a catch up call to Harry. They drive past a small blue saloon but Adam doesn't notice either it or the person in the driver's seat, who is frowning as he looks down at the mobile phone in his hand.

Martha yawns widely. She isn't going to make the Hub for breakfast; coffee and a doughnut at Cardiff Gate Services would have to do. She needs caffeine and sugar, but not necessarily in that order...

As she is walks back to her car, coffee and sandwich in hand, Martha's phone pings, indicating an incoming text. It's from Gwen. 'Need to see you – where are you? Text me ASAP x Gwen' Martha frowns.

Adam and Gregson walk back to the car, Adam having confirmed with Harry that there have been no further sightings of Saxon. He knows where the Torchwood offices are located – but it's hardly going to be a case of 'Excuse me - I'd like our prisoner back, please, when you've quite finished with him,' is it? Some backup would have been nice too, but with everyone else already deployed elsewhere, there's nothing for it but to make the best of a bad job. He ponders ways of gaining access to Torchwood without being seen.

Adam doesn't notice the young man in the hooded sweatshirt walking across the car park to the service station. He, however, sees Adam, and keeps his face carefully averted.

'Jack, we've got a signal!'

Tosh is still finding it hard to reconcile the Harold Saxon she knows with the person Jack had described. Now to hear that he had raped Gwen... Tosh shivers. He'd always seemed so _nice_... She had _voted_for him. How had he fooled so many people?

The Master waits impatiently for a reply to his text as he makes his way back to the service station, hood pulled up to obscure as much of his face as possible. He knows that CCTV will be capturing his every move; but until Gwen manages to raise the alarm Torchwood, MI5 and the Police will not be aware of his changed appearance. He should have made sure that Gwen wouldn't be able to tell anyone. Why hadn't he killed her? He can't explain it – compassion is not a concept he usually embraces. But with luck he might escape detection long enough to find Martha Jones, who is probably still tagging along after the Doctor like a lovesick puppy. Although perhaps not, if she's here on Earth...if she isn't, and if he can lure her back here, hopefully the Doctor will follow. He doesn't doubt that Torchwood have plans for him which may or may not involve the Doctor. Somehow he has to stay one step ahead of them until the Doctor arrives, as the Master knows he will, eventually. He hopes it won't be too late.

He'd spotted the MI5 agent, Adam, in the car park, but is confident that he hasn't been recognised. How long ago was that? He scowls as he realises that he isn't even sure how long he'd slept in Gwen's poky little vehicle. That bothers him – what has happened to his innate ability to gauge the passing of time? With a sigh, he flips open Gwen's phone again and scrolls through the menu to 'Jones, Martha.'

Martha gulps the scalding coffee, leaving the sandwich she'd eventually decided on untouched. Somehow her appetite has deserted her, and she reads Gwen's text again with a frown. The 'sent' time is less than half an hour ago; but if Gwen had been rescued why has no-one called her? It's probably safer, therefore, to assume that Gwen has sent this whilst still captive. Maybe she doesn't even have the phone – it could be a trap. Perhaps the Master has returned to take revenge on all those who spoiled his plans for universal domination. She is undoubtedly on his list, as will be – of course! He's probably planning to use her to get to the Doctor!

Not for the first time, Martha wonders how the Doctor will react to the Master's return. He had been so... well, _devastated_when the Master had died – Martha had been very worried about him. It had felt wrong to be worried about the Doctor, who had always seemed so strong – in Martha's experience nothing could faze him for very long. Even in his loopiest moments, she'd always known that he was In Charge, knew what was what and would get them out of trouble. But in the days following the Master's death, Martha had been forced to consider the possibility that just maybe, this time, he was defeated. If the Doctor had been human, Martha would have said he was heading for a breakdown. But this amazing young/old man with the mind of an ancient race had somehow picked himself up, dusted himself off, and carried on. And if there had sometimes been a weight to his steps and a haunted look in his eye which fairly screamed his loneliness – he simply seemed to ignore it. . Business as usual. Well, almost.

If it hadn't been for her family, Martha knows that the void in her life created by the absence of the Doctor might have overwhelmed her. It had been her choice, of course – and a necessary one. Sometimes you just have to get out, as she had told the Doctor. For a long time, his absence and the guilt she felt (and still feels, if she is honest) for leaving him when (in spite of his assertions to the contrary) she knows that for the first time he had really needed her, are like a nagging toothache – sometimes it fades into the background, but it never _quite_goes away. How then, she wondered, must the Doctor feel - knowing himself to be the last of his people? She knows something of the psychic connection Time Lords have with each other and in trying to understand this she can only try to imagine how she would feel if, say, the Master had succeeded in his plans and she had found herself to be the only Human to survive. How would she have found the strength to go on? How the Doctor continues to function is surely testament to his strength of will.

So how will he react to the Master's reappearance after everything that's happened? Death and chaos will surely follow the Master like a miasma. Martha crumples up the empty coffee cup and flips open her phone.

'Jack? It's Martha. I've just had a text from Gwen –'

'Yeah, we know! We're on to him, Martha – stay put! He's not far from you. Gwen is safe so don't reply and don't go anywhere near him. I'm on my way.'

_There she is..._ The Master flips the phone shut. Gwen's mobile had, of course, at one time been subscribed to the Archangel network. He would have expected Archangel to have been shut down after the Doctor ruined his plans, but no; it's still up and running, which is even better. He'd designed the system to leave little 'sleeper' functions on all subscribed mobiles; most humans wouldn't even be aware of them, but they were part of his backup measures in case something went wrong – as they have an annoying habit of doing whenever the Doctor starts meddling. The fact that Gwen's phone still has them embedded is evidence that the Doctor hasn't thought to look for them. _Getting sloppy, Doctor..._

He suppresses another yawn and massages his temples, trying to ease the headache which has been building up since he woke. The intervals between waking refreshed and the headache making itself felt are becoming shorter and shorter. He doesn't like to dwell on what that might mean; but whatever it is, it can't be good. Wearily, he gets out of the car.

Martha shuts her phone with a snap, and heaves a sigh of relief that Gwen is safe. She is surprised – what had made the Master decide to spare Gwen's life? The Master she knows would have killed Gwen without a second thought. Clearly he is up to something...

Suddenly the car door is wrenched open and a hand fastens itself tightly around her throat.

_'Surprise!' _

Martha claws desperately at the Master's wrist, fighting for air - but his grip is vice-like. As her vision begins to darken, Martha curses. She'd been stupid to leave the car door unlocked, knowing that the Master is back... Now she's going to pay the price. _Mum..._

As Martha slumps, unconscious, the Master relaxes his grip. He doesn't want Martha Jones dead – not just yet. She has a job to do. But first he has to get out of here. Both Gwen and Martha's cars are presumably known to Torchwood so he'll have to source alternative transport. And he knows just where to find it...

Adam swears roundly, shocked at the speed with which it had happened. Gregson had been in the act of fastening his seatbelt when his door had been flung open; hands had reached in and wrenched the man's head sharply to the right until his vertebrae had snapped with a sickening crack. As Adam reached for his seatbelt release, Saxon had leaned in – a second, fluid movement and the drivers' pistol was now pointed unwaveringly at Adam's right temple.

'Give me one good reason why I shouldn't splatter your brains all over the interior of this vehicle.' Saxon's tone is conversational.

Adam forces himself to relax. _Because if you were going to, you would have done it already_... 'Because you need the car and having my blood all over it would attract attention.' He remains perfectly still, his gaze locked with Saxons'. He takes in the man's altered appearance; the blond hair, the casual clothing. An image flashes in his mind's eye – a figure in the car park, hood up, face averted... _Bloody hell!_Incredibly, the bruises on Saxon's face have already begun to fade but he still looks pale and gaunt.

'Good point, wrong answer...and I'm not in the least bit squeamish so I'll do it if I have to. Fact is, _Adam_, I'm after your body...' Saxon grins and winks lewdly at Adam.

'You won't get far, Saxon. We have CCTV all over.' Saxon's eyes are wild, slightly unfocused. Adam hopes that he might be about to keel over again, but after a barely perceptible shiver he continues as if nothing had happened.

'Well, you just let me worry about that. Unfasten his seat belt.'

Adam does as he's told and Saxon hauls Gregson's body out onto the tarmac; letting it fall in an untidy tangle of limbs. He slides smoothly into the vacant seat, somehow managing to keep the gun trained on Adam the whole time. Adam doesn't doubt that Saxon will use it – there's a manic glitter in the man's eyes which warns him to be very careful. Clearly Saxon still has psychopathic tendencies and Adam is not about to encourage them if he can possibly help it. On the other hand...Saxon's strength had been impressive, but Adam notes the tenseness with which he holds himself – it seems that he is still in some considerable pain from his injuries. That he had got the jump on two fit MI5 agents is remarkable and more than a bit embarrassing. The pistol's barrel is cold against his right temple – what happens next?

With astonishing speed, Saxon swings his arm back then brings the pistol down on Adam's temple with savage glee.

Someone with very cold hands is slapping her face repeatedly – Martha's eyes shoot open.

'It so _good_of you to join us, Miss Jones.'

Martha blinks, gulping as memory floods back. She's slumped in the rear seat of an unfamiliar car, wrists bound tightly in front of her. Sitting in the driver's seat is ... she blinks. Yes, it's the Master, although he looks markedly different; white blond hair and casual clothing – a black hooded sweatshirt and jeans. A blond man she doesn't recognise lies unconscious on the seat beside her, his face pressed against the opposite window and a bloody bruise on his right temple. A quick glance beyond him tells her that they're still in the service station car park. She hasn't been unconscious for long, she hopes. Her throat feels bruised and sore, her voice strained as she replies.

'You won't get far, Master – Torchwood is on to you!'

The Master smirks. 'Oh, it's _so_nice to hear my name at last – I was getting rather tired of being good old Harry Saxon. Although it did have some advantages...' he seems to shake himself, bestowing one of Saxons' pitying looks on her. 'As for Torchwood...I think you'll find that they're heading in quite the wrong direction... ' He laughs, twisting around in the seat and gunning the engine before taking off with a squeal of tyres. Martha barely manages to avoid cracking her head on the window as they shoot across of the car park. The unconscious man is thrown against Martha, his head bouncing off the seat in front of her. She winces on his behalf.

'What do you mean?' Bound as she is, Martha can't lift the man away from her, so shifts her position slightly so that his head is lying across her lap. He will have a terrible crick in his back when he wakes but there isn't much she can do about that for the moment.

'A little mobile misdirection, Martha Jones. We don't need the Freak spoiling our happy reunion, now do we?'

'If anyone's the freak around here, it's you!' Martha knows she shouldn't goad him, but she can't help it – anger and despair rise up her throat until she feels sick with it.

'Now, now – _I_get to dish out the insults around here, not you, _girly_. Still trotting along behind the Doctor, are we? How is the old fellow these days? More to the point, _where_is he?' Martha glares at the back of his neck and the Master sniggers as he sees this in the rear view mirror. 'It would seem that you've been abandoned, Miss Jones...'

'As if _you_ really care – and how come you're still alive, anyway? You were _dead_– I saw you die!' Martha is shocked by how just easily she'd been caught – and angry with herself for being so careless, angry with him for not staying dead. He's had a change of hair colour and clothes and seems to have recovered considerably since she last saw him in the hospital; but he looks thinner, weary.

To Martha's surprise, the Master does not reply. She looks in the rear view mirror and sees him frown; one hand rubs his temple distractedly.

_He still doesn't remember what happened!_Martha isn't sure yet how she can use this knowledge against him, so files it away for possible future use. What else can't he remember?

'Where are we going?'

'Somewhere quiet, of course - so that we can renew our acquaintance. And you can phone our mutual friend for me.'

Martha snorts. 'Think again, Saxon.'

The Master thumps the steering wheel in sudden anger – at the use of a name he's professed to be tired of, or her refusal? The car swerves erratically and horns blare as other drivers make their displeasure known.

'Are you mad? Watch what you're doing!' Martha lurches forward, trying to grab the blond man's head as the movement threatens to send his head crashing into the back of the drivers' seat for a second time. He groans quietly.

'If you're trying to kill us or get stopped by the police for dangerous driving then you're going the right way about it!.' Martha fumes at the Master; she glares at him in the rear view mirror.

'Why don't you just shut up?' The Masters' tone is icy, but he brings their speed down all the same.

Movement and another groan from the man lying across her legs distracts Martha and with some relief she turns her attention to him, helping him up as best she can. Her bonds are so tight that she has all but lost the feeling in her hands and it's not an easy task. Eventually he's sitting upright, leaning against her and blinking dazedly as he tries to clear his head.

'Are you OK?' she asks, noting his pallor as he reaches up bound hands to investigate the wound on his temple. 'I'm Martha.'

'Yeah ...Adam – ' He gulps, swallows convulsively. Martha recognises the signs.

'Saxon! Stop the car!' But it's too late and Adam lurches forward, vomiting onto the floor between his feet.

'Oh for Rassilon's sake – you people are so _pathetic_!' The Master wrinkles his nose in distaste but does not slow the car.

Adam coughs, spits, and wipes his mouth on his sleeve.

'Sorry about that...' he grimaces apologetically at Martha.

'No worries. I'm a Doctor, by the way. You could be concussed - may I?' She turns and brings her arms up to cover his right eye, then removes it, watches the pupil response and then does the same with the other eye.

'I think you're okay. Just take a few deep breaths. We should really get you checked over properly though.'

'Not much chance of that at the moment...' Adam follows her advice, leaning back and closing his eyes, breathing deeply.

'So how do you know this creep?' he asks quietly, opening his eyes and indicating the Master, who has taken them off the motorway and is heading into the hills.

'It's kind of a long story... I know an acquaintance of his. How do _you_know him?'

Before Adam can answer, the Master interrupts.

'I do so like it when my new friends get along – Mr MI5 and Miss Doctor's Companion... isn't this cosy?' He chuckles, but Martha thinks his humour seems somewhat false; he's certainly not up to his form of a few months ago.

'Are you _mad_, Saxon? How far do you really think you can get before MI5 catch up with you?' Adam thinks Saxon _must_be mad; he can't possibly hope to get away with any of this, can he?

'Ooh – quite a long way, I imagine, don't you? Since no-one even knows you're MIA yet.' He snorts. 'You people do _love _your acronyms, don't you – MI5, MIA, DOA... which is what _you'll_both be if you don't shut up with the idle chatter.' The Master – typically- has changed his mind, and turns his attention back to the road. A fact for which Martha is thankful; she really isn't ready to die just yet.

She glances at Adam, who raises an eyebrow quizzically, his eyes sliding to both their hands. Martha nods.

Adam attempts to loosen Martha's restraints but his bonds are also tight – deprived of blood and thus almost all feeling, his fingers fumble uselessly at the material, which looks like strips torn from a cotton t-shirt. Martha is becoming increasingly concerned about the loss of circulation for both of them, but says nothing of this to Adam. He gives a little shake of his head. Martha swallows and shifts her position, conscious of a sick feeling deep in the pit of her stomach. How long will it take Jack to realise and pick up their trail again?

Suddenly they're driving over rough ground; a farm track by the look of it. After a few hundred yards they round a bend and see a stone farmhouse, hidden from the road by a small copse of trees. The car jerks to a stop and the Master retrieves the pistol from his waistband, steps out of the car and opens Martha's door. He points the pistol at her and steps back, stumbling slightly on the uneven ground.

'Out you come. Slowly. You '– he glares at Adam – 'wait.' As Martha steps out of the car, the Master grabs her arm and puts gun to her temple.

'Now, out of the car, Mister MI5.' Adam warily climbs out, glad to leave the stink of vomit behind. He knows that they are two to Saxon's one and that Saxon is undoubtedly insane - but bound as he and Martha are, they are at a complete disadvantage. It's a waiting game and he'll have to be patient. Patience doesn't seem to be one of Saxon's strengths, he notes, as the man bids him curtly to walk in front of Martha. Saxon is so off the wall that he's bound to make a mistake sooner or later. The three of them trudge slowly up the path to the house, the Master still holding the gun to Martha's head.

'Open the door.'

Adam pushes at the door – it's unlocked and swings inwards with a squeak of neglect. He goes through into a stone-flagged kitchen, which is empty. It appears that the occupants are out. A city-dweller, Adam is amazed that anyone would leave their home unlocked, but supposes that they may not be far –perhaps in the fields tending to the animals. He hopes they don't return anytime soon, for their own good.

The Master follows him in, hand gripping Martha's arm so tightly that she winces, the pistol barrel cool at her temple. She can see that Adam is tense, obviously waiting for a chance to take the Master down, and hopes he will choose his moment carefully. She knows that the Master wants her alive – how else can he lure the Doctor? But why bring the MI5 agent along – it would seem to be one risk too many and Martha can't imagine why the Master has let him live. He'd let Gwen live, too, hadn't he – what's his plan? She has to assume that he has one – the Doctor had told her about the Master's numerous failed attempts at universal domination. _Doctor, where are you? We need you...__  
><em>  
>The Master spots a door leading off from the kitchen. He takes Martha with him as he unlocks it, opens the door wide and steps back, pulling her with him. It's a cellar, and he smiles, happy with his discovery. He looks at Adam, nods towards the steps.<p>

'Down you go, Mister MI5.' His eyes gleam malevolently at the Agent.

As Adam walks past, the Master puts a hand between his shoulder blades and pushes hard - Martha gasps as Adam loses his balance and falls forward, tumbling down the steps with a sickening clatter. Martha gulps, swallowing anger and fear..

'You mad bastard!' she can't help herself, and cries out as the Master's grip on her arm tightens until she can feel the bruises forming. 'Are you trying to kill him?' _Why bring him at all then?__  
><em>  
>'Fancy him, do you? He is rather tasty in a rough sort of way, isn't he? If you behave yourself, I'll let you join him and you can play Doctors and Nurses in the cellar.' He slams the cellar door shut, locks it and pockets the key. Dragging her to the kitchen table, he kicks out a chair and pushes her into it.<p>

'Now then, Martha Jones ...' he fishes around in the pocket of his jeans, pulling out Martha's mobile phone. He flips it open, finds the menu and quickly scans it. There's no Doctor listed there, but he guesses she will have disguised the number. He doesn't fancy ringing them all until he gets the right one, isn't sure he has time. His head is pounding again and it's getting harder to think...

'If you think I'm bringing the Doctor here so that you can humiliate him all over again, you can forget it!' she snaps. Her wrists are really painful now, the constricted flesh swelling around the restraints. She rubs them against her legs, trying to relieve the pain.

'If you want pretty boy there' and he nods towards the cellar 'to live, you'll do as I say. Call the Doctor. After all, aren't Doctors _supposed_to save lives? Save his. Oh go on – you know you want to.' He smirks, but Martha can see the Master's discomfort as he starts to blink repeatedly, rubbing the back of his neck in a gesture which oddly reminds her of the Doctor. He's obviously not feeling brilliant, and Martha wonders... if she can delay long enough, might he drop his guard sufficiently for her to overpower him? Martha isn't sure that she can do it, bound as she is; but she'd learned a few escape techniques serving with UNIT. If the opportunity presents itself she'll have a damn good try.

She calls his bluff. 'No. I won't.'

The Master slams a fist down on the table and she jumps. Suddenly he's standing behind her, his hand closing around her throat, cold fingers covering the bruises he made last time. Martha gasps for air as he squeezes her windpipe shut.

'Let's get one thing straight, Miss Jones,' and he leans in close, hisses in her ear, 'I'd prefer to use you as live bait. But if you won't play nicely... There's more than one way to catch a Doctor, amd kist so you know, using you is simply the easiest.' He relaxes his grip just a little.

Martha glares at the Master and thinks quickly as she draws in precious air.

'OK.' she hesitates.. 'Give me the phone.'

He shakes his head, waggles a grubby forfinger at her.

'Not going to happen... I wasn't born yesterday.' He stops and leans in close again, his cheek against hers as he whispers in her ear; Martha tries very hard to suppress a shudder. 'I'll tell you what. You tell me what short-code the Doctor's number is and _I'll_make the call...how about that, Martha Jones?' And he kisses her cheek, licks it as he pulls away and gives her an expectant look. Martha doesn't disappoint and he wipes her spittle from his face with a smirk.

'You'll pay for that, you know.' he says conversationally. 'Now; the number, if you please.'

Martha sighs as if beaten.

'Five.' She says in a small, defeated voice.

Well _done_! Now wasn't that _easy_?'

The Master keys the number, puts the phone to his ear and waits with an air of expectation, wiggling his eyebrows at Martha in a way which might be comical under any other circumstances. She waits and tries not to hold her breath too obviously. Fear scurries around her and makes her shiver. She's trying hard not to show it, knowing that it would give him pleasure – but it's difficult. As the call goes through his eyes widen and then narrow with anger.

'You little bitch!'


End file.
